Wendigo
by Susan Zell
Summary: Blood Lust II. Lord Roxton is again afflicted with the vampirism disease, endangering the explorers and must pay a terrible price, but as usual nothing is as it seems in the Lost World.
1. Chapter 1: A Flood of Memories

TITLE: Wendigo  
  
AUTHOR: Susan Zell  
  
DISCLAIMER: Heck, I'm not even sure this story needs one it's so far out there, but just in case... blah, blah, blah-bity blah ... property of John Landis, Over the Hill Gang, New Line Television, Coote/Hayes....no profit made.... I'm so stuffy give me a scone.... (Sorry, Buffy moment!)  
  
SPOILERS: "Blood Lust", "The Outlaw" and "Mark of the Beast" mainly, but anything is game. Anything more specific would give away too much of the story.  
  
SUMMARY: Blood Lust II. Lord Roxton is again afflicted with the vampirism disease, endangering the explorers and must pay a terrible price, but as usual nothing is as it seems in the Lost World.  
  
TIMELINE: Takes place a week or two after "Mark of the Beast" and a month before "Survivors," assuming there was plenty of time between the two. Roxton's going to need it.  
  
NOTE: I don't know what possessed me to write this. It's darker than most of my stuff and it's fairly violent. Just think of it as if the explorers took a very wrong turn out of their normally mild reality. It was meant to be a Halloween story but I didn't get around to finishing it, and I'll use that as my main excuse. Please forgive me for taking the group outside their normal lives and roughing them up so harshly in both mind and body.  
  
WARNINGS: Many. There's violence galore; scary beasts; more language than usual; references to cannibalism; and lots and lots of images of blood.  
  
RATING: I'll have to rate it at the very least a PG-13. For those of you opposed to evil monsters and violence...give it a miss for bodies were bruised, souls were taken, and minds were toyed with. In other words, Happy Belated (or maybe that's Early) Halloween.  
  
  
  
Wendigo  
  
Blood Lust II  
  
By Susan Zell  
  
Chapter One  
  
It was a perfect day in the Lost World. The sun was shining, the wind was warm, danger was absent, and Marguerite was singing.  
  
Okay, Lord John Roxton thought, it wasn't quite the perfect day.  
  
Up on the roof he could hear her semi melodious voice drifting up through the thatch. The sad thing was, he didn't recognize the tune at all, and he considered that a bad thing. Sometimes he thought she just made this stuff up. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad. He really wished he and Ned Malone had been able to fix that shredded windmill. They had been without electricity for too long now. He missed the phonograph.  
  
Being without electricity once more suddenly made everything so very primitive again. They had gotten fairly spoiled with its presence. It was amazing to Roxton just how swiftly a bit of civilization had spoiled them.  
  
He pulled another wad of thatch closer to him and set it in place. Reaching for the twine so he could start weaving it into the fronds, he paused to look about him. The height of the treehouse afforded him a spectacular view of their surroundings.  
  
From up here the plateau appeared serene and lovely. Green as far as the eye could see, a deep azure cut across the sky so bright it made one's eyes ache to look upon it. Distant pterodactyls winged their way home for an afternoon roost, their expansive wingspan gracing the air. Roxton was almost jealous of their gift of flight. He missed it. With the balloon in disrepair for the last six months, it had been too long since he had had the opportunity to be up there with them. He now understood Malone's passion for ballooning. It offered a freedom like no other. And on a day like today such thoughts played havoc with him, especially when stuck doing routine treehouse maintenance.  
  
"Hey up there!"  
  
He glanced down to see Marguerite Krux beneath him, standing just below the hole in the roof. She had a scowl on her face and a canteen in her hand.  
  
"Sorry," he said, ducking his head through the hole. "What's the matter?"  
  
"Daydreaming, were you?"  
  
"On a day like today, it seemed like the perfect thing to do," he admitted.  
  
"Yes, well, I've been slaving away down here, so stop it." She tossed up the canteen toward Roxton who caught it.  
  
"Thanks." He popped the top and drank his fill.  
  
"I think I've got blisters on my hands," Marguerite lamented, examining her palms critically.  
  
"Veronica will be happy to hear that."  
  
Marguerite sniffed. "I am not going to become some ridiculous amazon out here. Just because we live in a jungle, there is no reason to let go of civilized behavior. You know, there is no reason to do this work ourselves when there are plenty of poor people living on this plateau."  
  
"You still haven't convinced Assai to hire on as your maid, eh?" Roxton said with a grin. This had been Marguerite's latest solution to try and avoid manual labor.  
  
"No." Marguerite pouted slightly. "I'd pay her well too. This could be the start of a whole new way of life for her and her people."  
  
"She's the chief's daughter and far more wealthy than you could ever hope to make her with your few baubles and jewels. Jacoba's been collecting for years."  
  
Assai's tribe, the Zanga, were a simple people and still too damn rich for their own good. And worse, they didn't know what to do with all the riches they had gathered over the centuries nor their value.  
  
"If you ask me," Roxton continued, "you should got to work for Assai. Then you could get your hands on some of her precious stones."  
  
Marguerite scowled, miffed at his lack of support of her scheming. It was an art form, after all.  
  
She gave a small yelp as Roxton tossed the canteen back at her. She barely caught it in time. "Are you implying I take a…a…job?!  
  
Roxton nodded, fighting the grin that threatened to erupt widely over his face. "That is the way the labor trade works, you know."  
  
"Yes, but not for me! Thank you very much." She sighed resignedly. "Besides, I'll find a way to get Jacoba's jewels, just you wait. I've got to make up for what I've lost last week."  
  
Roxton arched an eyebrow. So that was what this was all about. He shook his head. Materialistic, that's what she was.  
  
"When are you going to be finished up there?" she demanded of him.  
  
"Another thirty minutes. Then I'll come down to help you. All right?"  
  
"Sure, that's what you said over an hour ago." She spun on her heel and stormed back to her bucket and brush, but then reconsidered with a scowl. "I'm having lunch," she announced and detoured to the kitchen.  
  
Roxton watched her till she disappeared. Even though she talked such silliness, she still pulled her weight when push came to shove. Sometimes it was more shoving than pushing, but that was all right. He'd still rather have her at his side in a fight than most anyone else.  
  
Surprisingly, she had volunteered to stay at the treehouse with him while the others were out foraging for fresh food. One of Marguerite's least favorite pastimes, though most things usually fell into that category.  
  
Roxton had been relegated to staying close to home thanks to a bullet wound a month ago. It was healed enough but he was just starting to get back full rotation of that shoulder. Each day it got stronger. Also, the fact that they had had a fiasco just the other week with the Kanu. After the pummeling he had received at the edge of the swamp, he was still aching in spots.  
  
Besides, the hole in the roof was over his room. Last night's soaking in a quick passing rainstorm motivated him to get it repaired. He had let it go just to enjoy the fact he could gaze up into the night sky from his bed. The stars and the moon seemed so much larger and brighter here on the plateau. It took his breath away sometimes to look at it. It held answers for him if he could just find the key once more.  
  
He had held it once in his hands, but the price was more than what he was willing to pay. Not that he had been in any condition to make that choice for himself at the time. When Calista had made him…well, whatever it was, call it a vampire if one liked, doors had been flung open for him. He saw what it was like to know all the answers to every question every raised about the universe and how it worked. He had seen his place in it, if he chose to take it. He had known what it was to truly belong.  
  
But the price.  
  
Living off the blood of other living things, immersed in a type of madness. It had been too much. Once Challenger had cured him and Roxton had been able to think rationally again, he knew the price was beyond even him.  
  
He shook off the memories. It had been a long time since he had thought of Calista and what had happened that day. It had been well over a year ago now. But the thing with the Kanu had brought it all rushing back.  
  
As he changed slowly into a wolf, he felt those same sensations come rushing back to him. He was a true hunter once again. He had the ability to become one with his prey, to hear the very heart of it whisper in his ears, to feel it fill up his senses with its heady aroma and still distinguish it all from the surrounding chaos.  
  
Roxton took a deep shuddering breath and forced his thoughts elsewhere. They were too seductive.  
  
He finished patching the hole and came back inside, looking forward to a nice big lunch. He was famished despite the heat of the day and the manual labor. Using the washbasin in his room he cleaned up for the meal. Afterwards, he looked for something. It took him a moment or two of rummaging on his desk, but found the item he was searching for. Only then did he head upstairs.  
  
Marguerite was at the 'sink', which was merely a deep-set bowl with a bamboo spigot leading to a rain barrel collector in the canopy above them. She cast her head back at his entrance. "There's not much about but some vegetables left over from yesterday and a few slices of smoked raptor." She scowled. This didn't rate far up on her ladder of palatable meals.  
  
To Roxton, however, it sounded perfect. He sat himself at the table and poured the tea that was already set out. It was close enough to afternoon tea to warrant it. They had long since run out of the stash they had brought with them over a year ago, but Professor Arthur Summerlee, botanical genius that he had been, God rest his soul, had identified a local plant that was close to an Assam blend that Roxton cherished. Once dried, it brewed a wonderful tea.  
  
Veronica's china cups showed wear and tear. Roxton's finger unconsciously brushed over a small chip on the edge, not sharp, just worn smooth over the constant use. Regardless, it offered a sense of civilization in the midst of all the barbarity that existed on this plateau. He added his small splash of milk and sat back to enjoy his respite with his battered teacup and his favorite stranded explorer.  
  
Marguerite plopped down a plate of vegetable and meat in front of him and then one for herself. She smiled when she noticed that Roxton had also prepared her a cup of tea. She usually drank hers straight without sugar or cream, but Roxton's penchant for double brew usually made the tea a tad strong for her taste, so she added a pinch of sweet sugar.  
  
As casually as he could, poorly hiding his gentle smirk, he held up the end of a delicate necklace in between his large fingers. The remainder dangled down, the sunlight in the room making it dance and glitter "So if I returned this to you, would you cease plotting to acquire more gems from Assai and her people?"  
  
Marguerite's gasp of delight was precious. She immediately snatched the jewelry from him.  
  
"My necklace! You found it!" Her eyes widened as the diamonds within all sparkled at her.  
  
Roxton shrugged as if it was a small feat. "Jack Keller had it in his little stash. I made sure to collect it before he and Billie departed for parts unknown."  
  
She reached over the table and hugged him impulsively. "Thank you, John!"  
  
Surprised, though in no way disappointed by her show of affection, he returned the embrace, relishing the sweet fresh scent of her hair and the soft brush of her cheek against his. To his amazement she had tears in her eyes when she finally sat back. "Marguerite, why on earth are you crying?"  
  
She wiped the tears away hurriedly. "Nothing. It's just this piece has great sentimental value to me."  
  
"Ahh, so that's why you were so angry when the monkey pilfered it."  
  
"It belonged to a close friend of mine who died." She gave a sorrowful smile. "You know I haven't thought of her in quite awhile." Her expression turned almost culpable. Another secret from her past come to haunt her.  
  
"It's sometimes good to think of lost loved ones," he murmured.  
  
Her dark eyes darted to his. "Oh yes, you're one to talk," she scoffed lightly. The man lived in the past more than she did. She offered a sweet, genuine smile of sheer gratitude that immediately made him forget whatever troubled memories of his own had surfaced. "Thank you, John. This means a great deal to me."  
  
"Then I'm glad I retrieved it for you. I almost kept it for myself. A keepsake, if you will." His eyes danced with sensuous teasing, their usual game.  
  
"Hmmm, if you'd like a little reward, I think I might be able to arrange to give you…something." Her voice held her usual flirtatious hint.  
  
"Truly? Like what?" He leaned in close to her, envisioning all sorts of wondrous presents he'd love to receive from the gorgeous Marguerite Krux to add to his growing collection. Silk undergarments, like that little number he came across while creating her dowry for the boy king; one of her vivid scarves from her rather avid collection, soft and luxurious; the leather gauntlets she wore when she had played Amazon for a day. But he'd trade them all for a deep passionate, soul-searing kiss that would leave them both positively breathless.  
  
"Oh, I don't know." She smiled wickedly, meaning she knew exactly what he wanted, and she intended to deny him all. "Perhaps I'll do one of your chores for you today. Or I'll mend your socks. Lord knows they need it."  
  
"For mercy's sake, Marguerite, now is not the time to become an model of domesticity," he moaned in frustration. "I had far more interesting rewards in mind."  
  
She laughed. "I'm sure you did. Shame on you. What would your mother think?"  
  
"My mother?" Now Roxton chuckled. "She'd adore you." His gaze wandered over the incredible woman across the corner of the table from him.  
  
"Really?" Marguerite's heart beat a little faster. It was not the first time she had wondered such a thing.  
  
"Absolutely." Lady Roxton was a woman of fiery spirit and grace. Roxton was sure she'd recognize the kinship between herself and Marguerite and welcome her accordingly.  
  
The heiress was silent for a second, caught up in the wondrous daydream such a thing elicited. But then she snorted with disbelief. "Of course, she would. Wait till she sees my credentials. Liar, cheat, spoiled, conceited. Oh, she'd love me all right. You, John Roxton, are demented."  
  
Roxton's gentle smile didn't fade, nor did his stare wander from her. "In a most wonderful way," he admitted.  
  
She shoved his plate nearer to him. "Eat." Picking up her utensils, she tried to concentrate on her own meal, ignoring the fact that his eyes were still boring into her, as if she was his meal instead. It sent shivers racing across her skin.  
  
Her knife cut into the ripe, red tomato-like vegetable and its crimson juice oozed out. She liked this particular vegetable. It wasn't one that was found outside the plateau. Smiling, she watched Roxton finally dig in with similar relish.  
  
However, as soon as the hunter did so and the thick red liquid seeped out and coated the raptor meat, staining it crimson, his silverware froze. He just stared at it, a look of shock spreading across his face.  
  
Roxton's pulse raced and his stomach bottomed abruptly out. For a split second, a memory flashed.  
  
Blood. It looked like blood, warm and rich. Suddenly, he could feel it sliding down the back of his throat, filling his mouth. A pale form lay in front of him, eyes frozen in terror, throat exposed and open, lacerated, soaking in excess blood.  
  
Roxton's knife and fork fell with a clatter to the table and then to the floor. In horror, he flung himself back and out of the chair. It was so sudden, so loud, Marguerite let out a cry.  
  
Before her, Roxton was pale as a ghost, his breathing heavy and distorted. Fear immediately filled her. "What's wrong?" She looked wildly about for danger. Anything that scared Roxton terrified the hell out of her. She leapt back from the table also. "What's the matter?" she asked again when no answer came forth.  
  
Roxton calmed himself as best he could. He blinked rapidly and the vision faded, leaving only the plate of meat and vegetables. Everything was as it had been. He straightened and stepped away from it regardless. "Nothing. Sorry," he muttered.  
  
Marguerite regarded him with astonishment. "Nothing? You call that reaction nothing?" She scrutinized the table. "Was it a disgusting bug or something?" Nothing crawled into view.  
  
Roxton wiped his damp face with a trembling hand. "I'm not feeling well. I'll be in my room." He departed abruptly.  
  
"Roxton," Marguerite called after him. "John?"  
  
He didn't respond and disappeared downstairs.  
  
She shook her head with exasperation. If the man was making another statement about her cooking, he was going to be sorely sorry. One's hair could be cut even shorter after all.  
  
She lifted his plate gingerly, wondering where the mysterious bug might have crawled. Who would have thought a bug would have affected the mighty, great white hunter so acutely? She'd have to file that information away for later.  
  
If it really was a bug.  
  
She hoped he wasn't really sick. The man had the constitution of a mule. If he caught something, the rest of them were doomed. She'd check on him in a bit. Maybe it was just the heat.  
  
****  
  
  
  
Roxton bent over the washbasin in his room and poured cool water over the back of his neck, hoping to calm the queasiness rolling through his gut. He breathed out roughly.  
  
All that thinking about Calista, it needed to stop. It was not something he had dwelled on in months, but the damn business with the Kanu had brought it all rushing back.  
  
He took of deep draught of water from the carafe by his bed, draining it by half. He held his last swallow and swished it around his mouth. Instead of swallowing it, he spit it into the washbasin.  
  
It came out dark red.  
  
Roxton stared at it as the red swirled and mixed with the water within, staining it crimson. He could once again taste the blood in his mouth, metallic and warm.  
  
That did it. He dry heaved in the corner. There was nothing in his stomach but water, but it didn't stop the reflexive action. It took a few moments before he regained control. He hunched there on the floor, shaking and soaked to the skin with clammy perspiration.  
  
"Oh God," he mumbled. It was another minute or so before he felt steady enough to stagger over to the bed. He lay down and curled up on his side, facing the outside. A small breeze blew in through the open windows and cooled him. It took several minutes but eventually he felt better. Rational thought determined that he must have bit himself somehow. He just hadn't realized it. The bitter iron taste had brought back those horrid memory flashes.  
  
He used his tongue to probe experimentally for any cuts inside his mouth, but found none that were obvious, but it didn't matter. Wounds like that healed quickly. He took several deep cleansing breaths and after awhile drifted off to sleep. He never heard the soft footsteps come down the stairs and pause inside his room.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
  
Marguerite watched Roxton and determined that he was sleeping. Her concern mounted. That was something Lord Roxton was not wont to do, not after such a mild morning as today. She debated covering him but when she saw how soaked his shirt was, she let him alone. Her fingers gently brushed his brow, but thankfully felt no fever. He didn't stir at her touch.  
  
Maybe he just needed to rest, she decided. It was most likely just heat exhaustion. She should have called him in sooner and offered him the canteen more often. She noticed the water carafe was partially empty. That was good. The more liquids he could drink, the better. She took a cloth and soaked it with the remaining water from the pitcher, holding it over the washbasin so that it caught the excess. It dripped into the clean, clear water already in the basin. She rung out the cloth and then placed it gently on his forehead. He moaned and shifted, but still didn't awaken.  
  
She crept back up the stairs, letting him rest, wishing Challenger and the others would get back.  
  
***  
  
To be continued in Chapter 2 


	2. Chapter 2: A Narrow Escape

Disclaimers: See Chapter One  
  
  
  
WENDIGO  
  
By Susan Zell  
  
  
  
Chapter Two: A Narrow Escape  
  
  
  
Professor George Challenger and Ned Malone maneuvered their way through the small path granted them by the ever growing jungle. Veronica, lithe and slim and just ahead of them, made it look so easy. She bobbed between the grasping vines as if she were a trained contortionist.  
  
Snagged by the entwined vines and jerked momentarily backwards, Ned groaned watching Veronica's weaving body dart in and out with grace. While a part of him enjoyed the show, the other manly part was jealous. It made him look that much more pathetic. Thankfully, he was behind her so he wouldn't look too much the fool.  
  
His only consolation was that the professor was even more beleaguered than he was. Of course, he was over thirty years his senior. For a man in his fifties, Professor Challenger was in remarkable shape. There were times Ned could swear the man was in better shape than he was. That was little comfort.  
  
Veronica continued to blaze a trail, her machete slicing through the encroaching vines and foliage. Their hunting expedition had gone well. They had killed a wild pig and now it was her job to make sure they made it home safely with their prize. Unfortunately a T-rex had blocked their normal route and they were forced to take the long way back. It was a path they didn't use much and it hadn't take long for the jungle to take back what it owned. It never failed to make perfectly clear who was the master and who were just visitors.  
  
A sound to her left made her freeze. She couldn't see anything but she let her senses reach out, waiting. Animals tended to continue moving, fleeing an enemy or meandering on, unaware of their presence. Human natives were more clever, at least most of them. She heard nothing except for the hard muffled breathing of the two men behind her.  
  
She caught a glimpse of white to her left. That meant human. No animal was white in the jungle. Any abnormalities, like albinos, were quickly consumed by the ferocity of the jungle beasts. They stuck out like sore thumbs.  
  
Waving for the men to stay where they were, she slipped through the trees. She hoped to sneak around behind the figures, hopefully without them ever noticing they were being watched. With any luck, the intruders hadn't seen them and the two groups would just pass each other by, never the wiser.  
  
She crept through the trees and finally saw the white again. They were robed figures, five in all, three men and two women. They were unfamiliar to her. It never ceased to amaze her that so many groups coexisted on the plateau and that in her numerous years she had yet to meet them all. It just continued to lend credence to Challenger's claim that this was a world out of synch with the rest of the known universe. It existed on a multitude of levels, both real and unreal.  
  
They appeared outwardly as normal as any other denizen of the plateau. Save they were all dressed in white robes that fell about mid length around their knees, and tied with a simple hemp robe about their waists. They all wore amulets of different sizes and shapes.  
  
But what disturbed Veronica the most was that this particular group seemed to be coming from the direction of the treehouse. Thankfully, they didn't seem interested in them and soon they were gone, swallowed up by the jungle. Veronica let them go.  
  
There was the sound of crushing vegetation coming up behind her. She spun to see Ned scrambling up to her.  
  
"What was it? Raptors?" Ned asked anxiously.  
  
"No, just some people passing through."  
  
"They looked like they came from the treehouse."  
  
"Yes. Let's get back there."  
  
Her tone of voice was not overly reassuring. He readjusted the shank of boar on his back and together they collected Challenger and made their way home as quickly as possible.  
  
To their relief, nothing seemed out of place. No sign of battle. However, the trail of the visitors did show them to have been at the treehouse for some time. Their footprints were at the clearing's edge, but no further.  
  
The elevator deposited them up top and they were met by Marguerite. Her worried expression immediately renewed their distress.  
  
"Thank heavens, you're back," Marguerite exclaimed.  
  
Challenger set his hat on the peg by the elevator. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Roxton's been ill, or at least I think he's ill. Though he claims he's fine."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"Out on the balcony."  
  
"What was the problem?" Ned asked.  
  
Marguerite shrugged and colored a bit, a tad embarrassed that she didn't have much to go on for all this show of concern. Still she offered, "Loss of appetite, pale."  
  
"Fever?" Veronica asked.  
  
"No, but he seems withdrawn, quiet. He actually slept during the day."  
  
Challenger chuckled. What Marguerite described didn't sound so bad. Most likely it was nothing serious, but to put the heiress at ease, he'd check on Roxton. "I'm sure it's nothing, Marguerite. I can't blame him for being out of sorts after all we've been through of late. I'll look in on him. In the meantime, you can help Malone and Veronica prepare the boar meat we've brought back. It's been awhile since we had fresh meat."  
  
Marguerite frowned. "Oh joy," she muttered. The fun just never stopped. It was times like these, one horrid chore after another, that made her long for a way back to civilization. If she never had to look at another piece of raw meat again, it would be fine with her. She'd much rather go with Challenger and grill Roxton till he confessed what was wrong. But she also knew enough of the stubborn male animal that they were not very forthcoming with information when women were present. Maybe he would be honest with Challenger.  
  
Yeah right, she reconsidered. And maybe the boar would dress itself. She smirked at that particular image. A nice yellow frock and a flowered hat perhaps. She was still chuckling when she walked over to Ned and Veronica who eyed her curiously.  
  
***  
  
Challenger found Roxton on the balcony as Marguerite indicated. The hunter was leaning on the rail and looking out over the grandness of the plateau. He looked well, a bit drawn perhaps, but then after the last few weeks he had every right. They all did. Some days the Lost World was absolutely tedious in its boredom, and then on other days, it seemed as if the mayhem and terror never stopped. Unfortunately, more often of late, they had had their share of the latter.  
  
"Welcome home, George," Roxton spoke without even looking over his shoulder at the man.  
  
Challenger was surprised. He didn't think he had made that much noise as he approached. What had given him away? And how the heck had the hunter known it was him and not one of the others in their party?  
  
Challenger chalked it up to the fact that Roxton was the consummate hunter in every way. The man had skills and reflexes born of someone who lived out of the bush of Africa, New Guinea, Asia, South America, and now this forgotten plateau. The man was a bloody marvel at times with his tracking skills and quick thinking, to which the explorers owed their lives many times over.  
  
"It's good to be back," the professor returned, coming up to stand beside his friend.  
  
"How was the hunt?"  
  
"It went well. Malone brought down a boar. Single shot through the heart."  
  
"Good man."  
  
"He's improved greatly thanks to your tutelage."  
  
"He's got the instinct. He just needed to nurture it."  
  
A silence stretched between them and Challenger decided it would be best to just broach the topic head on. Must be a left over part of that whole goat episode, he mused, something even Challenger wanted put behind him.  
  
"Marguerite says you were ill while we were gone."  
  
A small sigh of exasperation slid through Roxton's lips. "I'm fine," he offered.  
  
"Your shoulder bothering you?"  
  
Roxton shook his head. He knew Challenger wouldn't give up easily on this topic. He was the anointed physician since Summerlee's disappearance. A role he had adopted with far too much relish these days. "Just some queasiness. It came and passed."  
  
"Any abdominal pain? You took some heavy hits from the Kanu. Internal bleeding could be a possibi…"  
  
Roxton held up a hand. "Enough. Really, Challenger, with you around who needs gloom and doom Marguerite? I just got too much sun while working on the roof. I'm fine now, all right?"  
  
It didn't really sound like Roxton at all; he had witnessed Roxton trudge for days on end in the hot sun, but Challenger dropped the subject. Pushing this man never really got him anywhere. "Well, if you experience any symptoms again, come see me. If it's a virus of some sort, we don't want to risk infecting everyone."  
  
Blunt to the core, Roxton mused. Challenger had the bedside manner of a bloody trog. These were the days when he missed Summerlee the most.  
  
"Also," Challenger continued, quickly changing the topic, "Veronica spied some natives watching the treehouse. We passed them on the way back."  
  
This immediately brought Roxton up straight. He looked over sharply at the professor. "We had visitors? Who were they?"  
  
"No one we've ever seen before. Veronica said they wore white robes. Sort of reminded me of the clan that lived underground, the one with the oracle child."  
  
"But they weren't?"  
  
"No," Challenger said. "The people of the oracle had lost all pigmentation from being under ground. Not so with these."  
  
"Then who were they? Veronica didn't know?"  
  
"They were definitely new to the plateau. We found their tracks milling over there." Challenger gestured to a small grove of saplings to the left just outside the electric fence.  
  
It was near Roxton's sleeping quarters. The hunter didn't like the feeling of dread that crept over him.  
  
"I'll go down there and check it out." He pushed off the rail and turned to head back into the treehouse when he felt Challenger's hand on his arm.  
  
"They're gone for now, Roxton. Don't worry yourself."  
  
"I don't like the fact that we were being watched, George. It means that we interesting enough to be a sightseeing stop. If they are inclined to return, then I want to know who my adversaries are."  
  
"I can't believe they could do anything to us up here."  
  
Roxton shook his head at the man's blind faith. The electric fence was only capable against dinosaurs and trogs and things with even lower intelligence, apemen and the like. It didn't always take a genius to figure out how to get around the device.  
  
"Humor me, Challenger." With that, he left to retrieve his rifle. Minutes later the elevator could be heard descending.  
  
Marguerite came back into the room. She looked at Challenger quizzically. "Where's Roxton going?"  
  
Challenger explained and soon Marguerite was also in a huff, except she was concerned that Roxton had taken off by himself, sick as he was.  
  
"He seemed fine, Marguerite. Tired, I suppose, but he has every right."  
  
"Yes, and did you ever think as to why he might be tired, George? He's pushing himself. He's not ready to tackle another adventure right now. And off he goes and you just let him."  
  
"He's a grown man, Marguerite. He does as he pleases. I see no sense taking on the role of his father. And neither should you be interested in taking on the role of his mother."  
  
Marguerite glared hotly at him. "If that's what you think then you obviously have no clue as to what is going on in this treehouse," she snapped.  
  
She grabbed her pistol rig off the rack and strode for the elevator. Challenger let her go, a bit stunned by her outburst. He shrugged. Perhaps she could keep Roxton in hand, if he decided to chase after their visitors. The professor instead went to change into something less ripe after a two day hunting expedition.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Roxton slipped silently through the branches, his eyes tracking the soft-soled footprints on the ground before him. His prey kept single file to hide their numbers, a plot Roxton himself had used often. They had an unusual smell, one that permeated the very air around him still. It was an earth scent, yet mixed with that of iron, which Challenger collected sometimes for his experiments. The stench of it never used to bother Roxton until lately. Now he hated it. And worse still, it was maddeningly familiar. He had smelled it once before, a long time ago. But he couldn't figure out from where.  
  
His adversaries' trail continued moving away from the treehouse, which relieved him. Soon they would be out of the explorers' territory and Roxton would be satisfied that they hadn't turned around.  
  
He stopped following them and took his bearings. He was about ten miles from the treehouse. He'd be back after nightfall but not too late. Still, he knew it would be enough to worry his companions. They all worried a bit too much in his opinion. Of all of them, he was the most capable out here, even more so than Veronica. He was better armed and far stronger. He had learned all he needed to learn from her about the savagery of the plateau and how to survive it.  
  
He took a last cursory glance around, letting the sounds and smells of the jungle wash over him as he stock of his surroundings. Content that he was alone, he headed home at a leisurely pace. It was nice to be out of the treehouse. He had felt far too confined of late with everyone fussing. He was fine, damn it! There was only the barest of twinges from his shoulder wound and the other bruised and battered places on his body were inconsequential. Certainly nothing that warranted being caged like he was. The fresh air and sunshine would do him far more good than being stuck in the treehouse.  
  
The long trek back was a pleasure despite the fact that he was a little tired and stiff, but overall not bad. He had to pause several times to let passing dinosaurs go by, but he always remained downwind and invisible to them, giving him free passage. He was well over halfway home and darkness was starting to descend, drawing long shadows from the large trees. Roxton welcomed them. He could move more easily and felt safer hidden within them. He didn't need a torch to light his way; it would only bring him to the attention of other predators.  
  
A snapping of brush made him freeze. Listening intently and taking a scent of the wind, he realized that whatever had made the sound was close. And in trouble.  
  
With a smile on his face, he stalked toward it, reveling in its plaintive cries, and the smell of sweat, blood and fear was unmistakable. He should put it out of its misery, quickly, painlessly, lest some raptor found it and started feasting before its victim was truly dead. The beast had very little caring for their prey. He had once witnessed them toying with a poor victim, just for the sport of it.  
  
He crept through the jungle, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, his eyes centering on the sound from up the trail. He slipped his knife from his sheath. He'd do it quietly. One shot from the rifle would carry to the treehouse and alert everyone. No sense doing that. A single cut through the jugular and the life giving blood would drain, swiftly, efficiently. A shiver of anticipation went through Roxton. He licked his lips.  
  
****  
  
Marguerite tried to untangle herself from the creeper vine nest she had fallen into thanks to the pitch darkness. Her torch had fallen to the side, but thankfully it was still lit. She struggled to extract her left leg, twisted and caught in the sticky grip of the damned thing. A sharp prick on her hand quickly informed her that some other thorny bush was tangled in it as well. It only served to make her even more annoyed. She was scratched in numerous places and she could tell her beautiful blouse was taking a beating from it.  
  
She hated sewing! It didn't matter she was good at it. Damn those nuns at the orphanage anyway. Couldn't they have taught her a more useful skill, like escaping jungle vines.  
  
As her last curse faded from her lips, she became aware of another sound, the sound of breathing, deep and harsh. It came from the darkness surrounding her. It was unmistakably an animal, one that didn't care if its prey heard it or not, as if it knew that there was no way for its prey to escape.  
  
A predator.  
  
Marguerite fumbled for her pistol at her side. Thanks to the tangle of vines, her fingers just barely brushed the butt of it, just out of reach.  
  
She struggled harder, knowing it was the only thing that would save her, even though she realized that her motions of helplessness probably only served to excite her stalker.  
  
"Oh please," she lamented harshly as she strained for her weapon. "Just this once, can something go right?"  
  
She heard a slight shuffle of branches as the thing moved around behind her. "Damn it!" She moved her entire weight, ignoring the stab of the thorns as they dug into her tender flesh as she leaned over as far as she could.  
  
Fingers finally curled around the pistol. "Thank heavens!" She jerked it up quickly, only to have it snagged by a vine and ripped from her grasp.  
  
"NO!"  
  
There was a crashing behind her and she screamed, twisting around to face her attacker, waiting for the slashing teeth and claws to slice into her. She shrieked in terror.  
  
To her shock and relief, it was Roxton, holding a knife and crouched low.  
  
"Roxton!" she cried out, relieved to see him.  
  
He continued to stalk towards her. His face was twisted into a sick snarl, the knife gleaming in the firelight. Was it a trick of the light or were his eyes glowing yellow?  
  
"John!" she shouted forcefully.  
  
Roxton drew up short and blinked at her. He bowed his head, shaking it for a second, and then looked up.  
  
"Marguerite?"  
  
His eyes were back to the simple green they were. It must have been a trick of the light.  
  
"Yes, it's me, Roxton, goddamn it. Stop messing around and help me out of this! There's something out there."  
  
He gazed at the knife in his hand as if unsure what it was. Then he slipped it back into its sheath and came forward  
  
"There's nothing out there," he told her.  
  
"Yeah, right. Just the big thing with the heavy breathing!"  
  
He pulled the vines carefully from her, trying hard to ignore the fact that smears of blood dotted her. Nothing serious but the way it glistened in the torchlight mixed with her salty sweat…  
  
He swallowed convulsively. He must have looked oddly pale, because Marguerite touched his arm.  
  
"What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Nothing. I'm fine."  
  
"Was it you crawling around in the bushes? What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack?"  
  
Roxton remained silent and finished extracting Marguerite from her trap. He heaved her to her feet, and while she took stock of herself and adjusted her wardrobe, he retrieved her pistol. She snatched it from his hands and shoved it into her holster. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she grabbed the torch, considering the solemn hunter before her.  
  
He looked pale and drawn. His eyes were bloodshot, which explained maybe what she thought she had seen before. She didn't bother asking him if he was feeling well. She knew the answer. Instead, she decided to just get him back to the treehouse. She picked a safe topic.  
  
"Did you find our little party crashers?"  
  
The man shook his head. "They moved out of our territory."  
  
"That's good." She regarded him oddly. "Territory? We have a territory?"  
  
Embarrassed at his choice of terminology, Roxton turned and moved toward the jungle's edge. "Yes," he stated.  
  
"Who would have known." What an odd term for Roxton to use, she thought. It sounded like…well, it was just weird. She trudged after him with the torch. How was he able to see where he was going without one? The little creep of dread was back and it grew more intense as she watched Roxton move unerringly through the woods, his pace strong and determined.  
  
"John," she called out, wanting him to slow down. He was pushing himself. Not to mention her. He jerked to a halt and turned to stare at her, his shoulders hunched and his eyes reflected in her torchlight like an animal's, large and luminous with a haunting green glow. Marguerite suppressed a shiver.  
  
"What?" he growled at her.  
  
No, not growled. Growled.  
  
"Do you need the torch?" she asked meekly.  
  
"No," came the sharp, throaty reply.  
  
"We are heading back to the treehouse, right?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That's good." She stared at him in fear.  
  
Roxton noticed the expression in her face and looked abruptly away. He made an effort to straighten and shove aside the whirlwind of sensations swirling inside him. He couldn't grasp any of them, though he knew they had hold of him somehow.  
  
A part of him was losing the battle. Every time he stared at Marguerite's blood flecked face, saw the glisten of sweat on her brow, the smell of her fear, he felt something want to snap inside him. With the same Herculean effort that had stopped him in the clearing, he shoved it all down into the pit of his soul.  
  
For Marguerite's sake.  
  
For the sake of his own sanity.  
  
"Come on, let's go home," he said in a much quieter voice. He offered her a small smile in an attempt to reassure her, though it did little to reassure himself.  
  
Relieved, she smiled back. That sounded more like the Lord John Roxton she knew. It was short lived however. As he took the torch from her hands, she could see that the dark of his pupils had filled his entire iris. No human eye could do such a thing. As the light of the torch entered them, they shrank back to normal.  
  
He cocked his head in puzzlement at her, as if unaware of what had just happened, but then turned and lead the way toward home. It was a second or two before Marguerite followed, absolute dread filling her thoughts.  
  
***  
  
To be continued in Chapter Three 


	3. Chapter 3: The Smell of Blood

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Three

"The Smell of Blood"

***

            By the time they reached the treehouse, Roxton was back to his usual self. He sat and talked with everyone as they typically did on most nights, relating their daily adventures and sights of wonder. It brought a sense of normalcy that Roxton relished this day above all others. 

Marguerite relaxed again, dismissing her earlier fears as just manifestations of being alone in the jungle. She hated being alone. So this was a time Marguerite actually enjoyed, peaceful and playful. They had had a large meal, all except Roxton, who claimed he had eaten while out on the trail. And now everyone one was full and content. No crises were occurring; no attacks were ongoing. The night was calm. They were safe. The explorers filled the time with simple stories of their day or from their memories.

Ned related some story from one of his penny dreadfuls which everyone found amusing, though the way he playacted some of the more fanciful parts had been hysterical, especially to Marguerite. He really was a horrible actor, far too melodramatic for her tastes.

Challenger spoke of one of his past archeological digs on which he had discovered the horned skull of some prehistoric animal. He had long claimed to the scientific community that the horn had been used solely for defense. Now he would have to eat those words. That particular dinosaur lived on the plateau and he had seen the beast use its horn exclusively for courtship purposes. Never had he seen it use its horn in an attack. He was quite miffed and yet intrigued all the same by the discovery.

Veronica related a Zanga legend, regarding their god, Attuna, which only served to fire up Challenger's curiosity. Marguerite frowned. Any day now they would have to go off searching for proof of this latest fable.  The strange odd shaped symbol for Attuna was unique to the Zanga people, with its man-like outline, but showing waves of energy perhaps emanating from him. Malone pointed out that Arthur Summerlee had been very fascinated by the Zanga deity and wouldn't it be a wonderful tribute to the late professor if they could find something credible on it.

Marguerite switched the topic quickly and turned to Roxton. He was about to renege knowing that it was his turn; he wasn't in the mood. He sat there quietly, absently swirling his port in his glass, half mesmerized by its gentle motion. Then he changed his mind, looking over his assembled pride with a renewed fervor.

            "Have I told you about the time when I felled my first tiger?  It was incredible. None after ever came close. Large and ginger colored he was, the black stripes of his coat wider than my fingers. He was standing on a hill, as tigers are wont to do in the early morning sun, his big face turned toward me almost as if he sensed me lying down wind in the tall grass. I couldn't get a clean shot but then he carelessly turned and I saw my golden opportunity. It was a hundred and seventy yard shot. I know for I measured it carefully afterward.

            "A deep grunting roar answered the shot and quickly he swung his whole body back around toward where it had come. I couldn't tell if I had hit him or not. Then suddenly, with a bound, he disappeared into the grass with me. I can honestly admit to the fear that engulfed me then for this beast was a man-eater. Reports of his grisly deeds had been numerous in the villages and among my porters. I had been commissioned to bring his rampage to an end, but now it seemed I was about to have the tables turned upon me."

            "So what happened next?" Ned exclaimed.

            Marguerite sighed. "Obviously he didn't get eaten."

            Roxton smirked at her, then returned his attention to Ned and even Challenger who had paused momentarily in his calculated doodling. "I could hear the great beast breathing somewhere nearby, a deep rasping sound that made the small hairs on the nape of my neck stand upright. I knew that if I moved the tiger would spring upon me, claws slashing, teeth ravishing my tender flesh that I knew it craved. I remained motionless hoping the terrible thing was still down wind and had no more idea I lay so close beside him than of a tiny pebble resting near its paw."

            Marguerite shivered at the similarity to her own adventure this night. She was mildly annoyed with Roxton for being so callous in choosing this particular story to relate. Typical of men not to recognize the impropriety of it all.

            "Did he see you?" Ned asked of Roxton. The lad's eyes were as wide as saucers.

            "No. After several minutes of desperate waiting, I heard it stand and slink off. One of my porters, several feet away, began calling out. He had seen a tiger exit the grass. Knowing I was safe, I regained my feet. Thankfully, I still clutched my .450 in a ready stance for unbeknownst to me, my porter had spied a different tiger, the mate, departing from the other side of the grass. My own tiger was just fifty yards away from me. He charged, growling angrily, rushing through the dry grass at a ferocious pace straight at me. I jerked the weapon up and fired directly into his chest. He fell to the ground and moved no more."

            "How many people did he eat?" Challenger inquired matter-of-factly, curious of over the statistics.

            "At least seven people that we knew of," Roxton answered casually. "I tracked numerous kills to halting-places, where the beast doubtless paused to indulge in the man eater's habit of licking the skin off so as to get at the fresh blood. Their tongues are rough so…"

            "Roxton!" Marguerite snapped. "Really, I don't think any of us are interested in the details." She gave a sharp quick glance toward Challenger and Ned who both backed off and reluctantly nodded agreement with the heiress.

            Roxton held a shocked expression, almost mortified. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize… I think I'll retire to my room." He stood abruptly and withdrew.

            "Now what was that all about?" Veronica wondered. "Roxton never relates gruesome stories."

            Challenger shrugged. "Perhaps it's a remnant of the Kanu incident. I have to confess to still craving a bit of bark now and then."

            It eased the tension in the room and low laughter filled the air. But it didn't enable them to forget the terrible tale of Roxton's hunt.

***

            Hours later, Roxton tossed and turned fitfully in his bed, now wishing he hadn't covered the hole in the roof. He missed the expanse of sky above him. It had comforted him. The glow of the moon in all its luminous glory, bathing him in its brilliant light, had filled him with contentment.

            Now the room was dark and stifling. Agitated, he rose and dressed, pulling up his suspenders roughly out of habit over his undershirt. Even with booted feet he crept upstairs, silently passing the deep snoring in Challenger's room and the low mumblings of Malone as he dreamed. The young reporter sometimes talked in his sleep, a remnant perhaps of his days in the War. 

            Those were dark days that the young man rarely spoke of. Despite his stint as an aerial photographer, Roxton was sure the journalist had been witness to things that still affected him. He had never killed before, even during the War, that much had been obvious when they had first arrived on the plateau. He had not been a warrior, only an observer. His lack at hunting skills had been atrocious and Roxton had spent many long hours nurturing such things in the reporter. Malone's hesitancy had almost led to disaster on numerous occasions. Thankfully that was all slowly changing. Malone's kill of yesterday had shown that. Soon, the lad would be old enough to challenge him for control of the pack. Their fight would be bloody and magnificent. It filled Roxton with a glorious anticipation.

            Roxton started, pausing on the stairs, his breath locked in a frightening grip. _Where had that thought come from? He shook his head, shoving such pure primitive urges down to the bowels of his soul where he kept them secured. Roxton continued on upstairs, his footsteps a little unsteady for the first few. Then they regained their surety. _

            What the hell was with him? He was edgy all the time and his thoughts were…well, they weren't his own. He felt like there was someone else living under his skin of late.

            No, not someone. 

            Some thing.

            He suppressed a shudder as he stepped out onto the balcony on the upper level. He felt better out in the open, standing in the moonlight. The tightness in his chest eased and his breathing evened back out. He tried to relax and collect his thoughts. Something was happening here, but he couldn't say what. Though there was a familiarity about the things that were happening. It reminded him far too much of the disease that had infected him when they had met Calista.

            Was this a relapse? The signs were certainly there. 

            Bile rose in his throat. He couldn't go through that again. The hunger that had consumed him, the joy of the kills. He had become one with his prey. It had been incredible. His muted human senses, touch, sound, smell, had been cast wide open and nothing remained hidden to him. He understood so much with a clarity that had never been his before. Life was suddenly an open book. He saw everything, heard everything, sensed everything. He saw the full pattern of the stars against the dark veil of the unknown universe. The light of stars hidden to mere mortal vision had filled his eyes. The moon glowed with their light, brighter and larger than anything he had ever known. Nothing had been a mystery to him for one brief extraordinary moment. He saw his place within the fabric of life and it had been glorious.

            God, he missed it!

            _No!_

            Roxton swayed in the moonlight, his hands gripping the rail in a bone crushing hold, his knuckles dead white. Unknowingly, his right hand rested in the burned mark left by the golem months ago. 

            _The price! Remember the price, he shouted at himself silently. _T___he killing, the blood. It was wrong! It was sick!_

            He leaned over the rail as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. His breath came in loud harsh gasps, his chest gripped again in a painful vise. 

            He couldn't go through that again!

            So consumed with those thoughts, Roxton didn't see the pale glimmer of white in the darkness as something moved just beyond the tree line.      A figure in white stood stock still in the darkness, its gaze locked on the hunched figure above them. Then the figure stepped back unseen into the shadows. 

            Roxton eased himself off the rail, dragging a rough hand over his damp face. He took a deep breath of the gathering gloom, letting the jungle night wash over him. To his relief, there was nothing on the wind and the sounds around him were the same ones he had heard over and over the last two years.

            Everything was normal. He was normal. Perhaps whatever malady had gripped him these last few hours had passed. Maybe Marguerite was right; he was just tired, worn out. Taking it easy for a few days wouldn't be such a bad thing. He'd stop bristling about it and just embrace the vacation. It would make this entire incident just pass by sooner.

            He padded back into the main room and poured himself a stiff shot of whiskey from their depleted stock, downing the liquid without an ounce of guilt. This was one moment that warranted a stiff drink if ever he saw one, depleted stock be damned. His nerves steadied enough for him to try once more to sleep. 

            He loved the quiet of the treehouse at this time of night. There was silence finally, a stillness in their home that he cherished. He would often wake during the night and make a long circuit of the treehouse, looking for danger and making sure everything and everyone was in their place. A silent sentinel ever diligent. Nothing was going to happen to them under his watch. Never.

            He swung past the girls' rooms on his way back. The soft rustle of bed sheets could be heard past the curtain draped across Veronica's room, a soft breath, a whisper on the wind came forth. So silent, so efficient a huntress even in sleep. It was good to know that if anything happened to him, his charges would be left in capable hands. Of course, Veronica would only obtain that spot if something happened to him.

            He moved on, following the soft scent of flowers and lavender to the room where they were strongest. The curtain there blew gently in the evening breeze. Through its gauzy material he could see the slender shape of Marguerite Krux, resting blissfully unaware. He could see the trail of her bare skin across the paleness of the sheet it rested upon.

Roxton raised a hand and drew the curtain aside, letting his gaze roam over her with abandon. His breathing deepened and his chest tightened. He lowered his arm toward her face, not even aware of when he had entered the room to stand over her. Suddenly, he was just there. 

Her dark hair spread across the lace edge of her pillow in beautiful disarray. His nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of her, the aroma of the hibiscus she had strolled through yesterday still clung to her, as did the heady tang of sweat from her day's labor. It about drove him mad. 

He knelt beside her, his face contorted, fighting the abrupt instinct that filled him now. A part of him knew this was wrong. He shouldn't be here. But something was pounding at his brain, crushing the reason that normally rested there. It was overwhelming and stifling, and yet obsessive and liberating all at the same time. It was as if he was watching these events unfold from a far distance and was powerless to stop what he was about to do.

Marguerite's throat lay exposed above the neckline of her nightgown. He watched the subtle throbbing of her pulse there, and the thought of what rich liquid it carried forced him to lick his lips with anticipation. It would taste so good going down his gullet. His powerful hand lowered to her throat intending to grab it and hold it while he….

Roxton fell backward onto the floor with an anguished cry. His fall brought Marguerite awake with a shout, her hand reaching beneath her pillow for her pistol. Roxton scrambled to the door and flung himself out, tearing the curtain down. He heard Marguerite shouting his name. But he didn't stop. For her sake, he dare not. He ran up into the main part of the house.

            He was in the elevator and descending before lamps were even lit in the treehouse. He had to get away from them before something happened. _The blood lust was back. He couldn't let them find him like this. Oh God, not like this! The shame of it washed over him once more, just like it had two years ago with Calista, just like it had last week with the Kanu. _

            He fled.

***

            The treehouse burst into life at Marguerite's shouting. Veronica was there first, alert and defensive. 

            "What was it?" she demanded, looking about for the danger.

            Marguerite was half out of the bed, pistol in her hand. "It was Roxton." 

            Veronica immediately relaxed, assuming it was just another of the couple's little spats. She bristled at the fact that Marguerite had found it necessary to brandish a weapon at the British lord. She always carried things just one step too far.

            Marguerite knew exactly what Veronica was thinking and scowled at her, shoving past her. She could hear the elevator engage. "It wasn't what you think. There's something wrong. He looked…he was…." She hesitated. Again, for just a moment, she had seen something in his eyes. Their color had been like when Calista had transformed him. 

            "What?" Veronica followed the woman out of the room and up the stairs. "He was what?"

            Challenger and Ned ran up with lit lanterns, both carried pistols. "What's going on?" they demanded.

            "Something's wrong with Roxton," Veronica shouted back at them. They all ran up the stairs but they were too late

            The elevator was already gone. Marguerite was calling it back up and cursing the fact that it was taking too slow as the water emptied from one container to the next enabling it to lift again to the top.

            "What is the matter here?" the professor inquired. "What do you mean something's wrong with Roxton?"

            Marguerite spun on him, angry and confrontational. "He's ill. I told you that, but you wouldn't listen to me." Her face softened a moment with fear. "His eyes, they looked like the time when Calista infected him."

            The annoyance in Challenger's demeanor faded. He stared hard at the heiress. "Are you sure?" The memories of those few days were not his proudest.

            "Yes. I thought I saw it yesterday when he found me in the woods. But I dismissed it as my imagination. But now, just now, in my room, he was …"

            "He was in your room?" Ned asked in confusion. "What was he doing in your room?"

            "He was going to eat me! What do you think!" she snapped in aggravation. The words rushed out before she could stop them. 

            Veronica made an observation that chilled them all. "He didn't take a rifle."

            "He's unarmed?" Marguerite whispered. "In the jungle? At night?"

            Challenger ran to the balcony, hoping to see Roxton. He shouted out the man's name but no one answered back. He heard nothing. The jungle was quiet and still. If the hunter was running, he was doing so very silently. It only added to Marguerite's claims. The man had been highly dangerous while infected with Calista's mad disease.

            He turned back to the others. "Believe me, if Roxton is having a relapse, he's very well armed and capable out there." Roxton had once taken down a raptor under the disease's influence. He was quite capable even without a gun. "We need to find him though, and quickly."

            "How are we going to do that?" Ned exclaimed. "It's pitch dark out there."

            "We have to try!" Marguerite insisted. She wasn't about to let Roxton succumb to this disease again. It had almost broken him—her. It had been the first time she had faced the fact that she might lose him to this miserable plateau. Thoughts of that dark night watching over the barely breathing man in the damp jungle still gave her shivers.

            The elevator finally rumbled up to their level, empty. Marguerite jumped in. Challenger stopped her from descending. "Wait. I think we should at least get dressed first." He indicated Marguerite's nightgown. "And we'll also need a few things."

            She was about to tell him to shove off, but then she let his reason seep in. He was right. Roxton didn't have much time. And even if she found him, or he found her, what was she going to do to help him? She nodded. "Hurry," she told him sharply. Everyone quickly changed.

            Veronica and Ned went down while Marguerite waited impatiently for Challenger. The huntress wanted to find Roxton's trail in the darkness so that when the others joined them, they would lose no more time. What she found instead disturbed her. Someone, a single figure, had been watching Roxton's room. The footprints were the same as the people she had seen yesterday, but these were days old. She exchanged a worried glance with Ned. Someone had been watching them for quite some time.

            Within a few moments, the explorers were ready, armed with tranquilizers, blowguns and torches. Challenger and Malone carried well-stocked packs. They quietly departed into the dark jungle while Veronica related what she had discovered. It only heightened their urgency as they hurried dangerously through the shadows.

***

            Roxton ran through the jungle, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the others before the madness struck again. The farther he was away, the safer they would all be, especially Marguerite.  Every incident seemed to be triggered by her or in her presence. He couldn't bear it if he hurt her. He would lose whatever was left of his soul. He knew that.

            So he ran.

            He ignored the branches as they slashed at him, ignored the sharp stones that bit into his hands when he stumbled. Nothing mattered but escape. He ran till he thought his heart would burst, sprawling headlong to the ground when his endurance gave out. He lay there gasping in the dirt, his breath coming in ragged sobs, fists clenching the grass around him angrily, his rage at his weakness consuming him. He should have been able to control this. He shouldn't allow himself to turn into a monster again, regardless of the reward it would bring him. It was wrong. Too many people would be hurt, killed by his hands.

            He didn't know how long he lay there battling his demon thoughts and primal urges, but when the fog in his head cleared, he relaxed, bone weary and sore. With limbs that trembled with exhaustion, he rose to his feet and tried to get his bearings. He was heading toward the northern part of the plateau. That was fine with him. It was cooler and less occupied by natives. The more secluded the better, at least for now. Maybe the relapse would soon pass, and once he had control of his faculties again he could return to the others. Maybe Challenger could find a way to cure him permanently. 

            He stumbled on through the jungle, moving slower now toward his destination. It would be a hard fight to survive at first as unprepared as he was, but he would manage. He had no weapons save his knife, but he could feel the rage scratching just below the surface of his skin. He could let it loose if he had to…just to feed, to survive…

            He stopped himself abruptly. No! He couldn't do that. If he gave in even for an instant, he could lose himself in the blood lust. He might never make it back from that black void of savagery. No, it was better to hold himself back from temptation, regardless of how sweet the prospect or how severe the danger. It would be difficult. The cravings reminded him of opium addicts he had seen suffering in his travels through Asia. Some of his associates had dabbled in such things and had become hopelessly addicted. When the addiction wasn't fed, they had turned into pathetic creatures, full of rage and sickness and misery. 

            God, he hoped that was not the path set before him.

            It made his sweat run cold on his skin.

            He occupied his thoughts with ideas for weapons to arm himself over the coming months. He had no choice but to consider spears, swords, and crossbows. The latter were harder to come by or manufacturer, but not impossible. The spear was the quickest to get a hold of though not the most useful against raptors, but that couldn't be helped at the moment. One step at a time was the key to survival.

            Again, he was so caught up in his ruminations that he failed to see the gleam of white as he passed by. He didn't notice that it turned and started following after him.

***

            Marguerite ignored the trilling and grunting noises of the insects and creatures around her, hidden from sight by the darkness of the jungle's thick canopy. She hated it. What wandered out there just out of sight terrified her at times. Even the moonlight was not allowed to pass through the dense foliage and branches. But still somehow Veronica was able to track Roxton's movements.

            "He's not bothering to hide his trail," the blonde commented, keeping her torch high above her as she read the ground below.

            To Marguerite it only looked like mud and leaves. She really wasn't very good at tracking, regardless whether it was day or night.

            "What does that mean?" Ned wanted to know. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

            "He's running. He should know the dangers of doing that." Veronica plainly didn't like such carelessness especially from a man who should know better. Worry lines streaked her brow.

            Challenger came up beside her. "He's not thinking rationally right now. Which is why we have to find him quickly."

            Veronica shook her head. "He's stumbling too. He's fallen three times the last mile."

            "Maybe the sickness hasn't gotten a good hold yet," Challenger offered hopefully.   
"If he would just let us help him."

            "He won't. He doesn't trust himself," spoke Marguerite softly. "He's afraid of what will happen if he does." Her hands brushed over the many scratches that still dotted her skin.

            "We're his friends, damn it," argued Ned. 

            "He's a proud man, Ned," the professor answered. Memories of the last time this occurred appeared again in his mind. Roxton had been damn scary. The man had been all power and cunning, armed with a madness that made it impossible to distinguish friend from meal.

            After he had been cured, the man had said nothing for hours. The trip home in the balloon was long and silent. The professor had urged the hunter to speak of what happened, not just out of his sheer scientific curiosity, though Challenger admitted that was a part of it, but also he understand that it would be beneficial to Roxton himself. It did no good to hold such darkness inside. 

            But it was the hunter's pride and embarrassment that withheld such talk. He was ashamed at what he had tried to do to his compatriots and friends. He had almost killed both of them in his madness, and despite the fact that he wasn't himself, he considered himself weaker for giving in so easily to the temptation.

            Marguerite had convinced Challenger to finally let the man alone and give him some time to recover. The mysterious heiress seemed to understand much about the hunter's tenuous emotional state. She had been either extremely intuitive or she had been making a lucky guess. Either way, Challenger had let the matter drop. Roxton had never spoken of the matter again. At least not to him. Or Veronica or Ned for that matter either. The only excerpt in Ned's journal on the incident was what Challenger himself had been able to relate. Nothing more.

            Challenger shook his head. His heart went out to the hunter wherever he was right now. His mental state was most likely just as fragile as his physical state. _Hold on, Roxton, he said silently. __We're coming. Whether you like it or not._

***

            Roxton heard voices and he jerked upright. They were somewhere just to his left. He had stopped to rest for just a bit. To his horror, he had fallen asleep. Cursing himself that he should know better, he rose to his feet. Groggy and disoriented, he tried to gather his wits and determine if the voices were friend or foe.

            His head seemed heavy and full of fog; he could barely keep his vision straight. A dryness gripped his throat and his belly clawed at him with hunger. He couldn't remember when he had eaten last. 

            Staggering to his feet, he swayed and used the nearby trees to steady him. The air seemed filled with aromas and they were sickly sweet and nauseatingly earthy. Where the hell had he fallen asleep? Some sort of flowerbed? It struck a memory within him somewhere that he couldn't quite tie down, but it made his gut clench. Then another scent struck him and his hunger immediately grew.

            Blood. It was the smell of blood.

            It filled his nostrils and flooded his brain. The madness washed over him. He held on by his fingernails but he knew his control was slipping. 

The last thing he remembered was the horror that he was about to hunt a human being.

***


	4. Chapter Four: Crime and Punishment

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Four

"Crime and Punishment"

            Marguerite was impatient. Veronica's pace was much too slow. Granted, it was dark and the trail practically invisible, but that still wasn't an excuse. Not while a life was at stake. Roxton's life in particular. 

            So this was what it was like, she mused. 

Love.

She hadn't realized how deep such a thing would run inside her. It seemed to make her emotions all too clearly visible, drifting just under the surface, ready to burst out at any moment for all to see. She resisted such things. No one should know what was between herself and Roxton. Frankly, it wasn't anyone's business. 

These feelings were all new for her. For instance, right at this moment, she felt on the verge of panic. Something she rarely experienced. She needed to find Roxton right now, to know he was okay, to help him in any way she could. Such powerful feelings almost overwhelmed her. And that intensity was something that had only happened within the last few months. Ever since that incident at the old English village. 

Their relationship had changed. One minute she was able to keep him at a distance with quips and snide remarks. Now however, he wasn't keeping his distance. In fact, he was very much invading her personal space on a routine basis. And to her annoyance, she found she didn't mind. She did little to deter the man, instead acting all too coy just to lure him in closer.

And now he had wormed his way close to her heart, almost bridging the barriers she had placed there. And it really terrified her. 

Just like she was right now. Only now it was sheer terror for his life. He was in danger far too often for her liking. She should have known better than to fall in love with such a man as Lord John Roxton. He always placed himself on the front lines, never shirked from a dangerous responsibility, adhered to every moral code in the book. She was completely the opposite! How on earth would they ever live together?

            Challenger and Ned conversed behind her. She tried not to listen to them, worried that they were discussing strategies on subduing Roxton. It pained her to hear about it. She couldn't bear to hurt the man, not physically, not emotionally and she knew she would some day. She had no choice.

            Veronica stopped so abruptly ahead of her that Marguerite almost collided with her. About to reprimand the blonde for being so careless, she realized that something was amiss.

            "What is it?" she hissed. Everyone stood stock still and silent.

            The huntress didn't say anything for a minute, listening instead to what was around her. "Something's out there," Veronica told her in a whisper.

            A chill rushed through Marguerite.

            It was Roxton. He was hunting them.

            Her hand dropped down to her pistol, for all the good it would do her against the man she loved. She didn't assume for a moment that she could actually shoot him. She didn't before, she couldn't now. Challenger lifted his loaded blowgun.

            She heard the distinct click as Ned brought back the bolt on his rifle, about to place a bullet in the chamber. Her stomach clenched at the sound as it filled her ears. _Would Ned really shoot him? Would any of them? Would she let them?_

            _Please, Roxton, don't do this? Marguerite pleaded to the darkness, silent and ominous. Even the normal voice of the jungle had ceased its chatter. Marguerite grew suddenly very cold as if the very air around her dropped in temperature._

            A scream erupted out of the silence, startling all. Immediately they thought the screams of terror and agony were Roxton's; terrible visions of Roxton's grisly demise, unarmed against the slashing teeth of a raptor, consumed them.

***

            The man's screams cut into Roxton's brain like a scalpel. He grabbed his head to shut them out, but was doing a poor job of it. It was as if a spike has embedded itself in his brain. 

            Finally they stopped and Roxton sagged, opening his eyes, his hands falling away from his throbbing skull. As they focused, horror filled him. He put a hand out to steady himself as he swayed.

            He gazed into the eyes of the dead man he was hunched over. The corpse's throat was ripped open and blood gushed forth, warm and rich and black in the darkness. The taste of it filled Roxton's mouth. He used his other hand to wipe the taste away and as it slid over his lips, the back of his hand came away a dark crimson.

            Roxton fell back and scrambled away, a scream of his own poised to explode from his throat. But then a figure draped in white stepped out of the shadows, so pale that Roxton thought it was the ghost of the dead man, the man he had killed in cold blood to satisfy his hunger.

            The spirit looked at him. For a brief moment, he looked familiar to Roxton. The outer edges of the figure shimmered.

            "What have you done?" The voice was almost melodious and high. The spirit gazed down at the hunter half sprawled on the grass. "You are the Damned One! You did this!"

            From out of the woods drifted more wraiths, all draped in white and floating on air as if pushed along by the mere breath of the wind. The first one backed away till he disappeared into the background.

            Roxton realized then that they weren't ghosts come to haunt him, as some were wont to do, but these were very much alive. They had a scent, the very earthy stench that he had hunted the previous night. These were the same people who had been steadily watching the treehouse. The arid odor of iron permeated them.

            The figure that had spoken to him was gone, leaving Roxton alone with the other silent figures, all of which gazed at him with accusatory stares.

            "I'm … I'm … I didn't mean …," Roxton tried to explain but knew he couldn't. He didn't even remember the act of killing the man sprawled on the ground. He just remembered the blood, the smell and taste of it.

            _Oh God!_

            "I'm sorry!" he pleaded in a voice that wasn't his. It was more like that of an anguished ghoul that understood that his soul was now completely lost for the vile act committed.

            The figures in white encircled him soundlessly. Roxton was too frozen with horror and guilt to move. He was willing to accept his fate at the hands of these people. He had no defense. It was obvious he was guilty of the terrible crime. 

            They raised their hands and white, blinding light struck him. He screamed in agony. Even he didn't recognize the unholy sound being ripped from his throat. Then light faded and the world around him vanished with it.

****

            The scream reverberated in the jungle around them. A chill swept over Marguerite so deep that even her soul froze for a moment. She knew that voice.

            "Roxton!" She ran forward while the other explorers remained rooted, still not understanding what was happening.

            "Wait!" Challenger shouted.

            But she paid them no heed. Only one thought filled her brain. Roxton was in danger.

            Veronica wasted no time and ran after Marguerite, her hand reaching back to grasp one of the knives at her waist. She was surprised at how fast Marguerite could run. She wasn't going to be able to catch her before the woman ran head long into danger.

            Through the trees, Marguerite saw ghostly figures in white. There was another silhouette among them that she instantly recognized.

            "Roxton!"

            Two other men were holding him up. The hunter looked completely out of it. His head lolled back on his shoulders and he was stumbling along with them almost drunkenly. The men were maneuvering him toward a white light, which was as tall as a man and appeared to be just hovering there like a rip in the fabric of reality. It was unnatural.

            Whatever it was, Marguerite would be damned if she let Roxton be forced into it. She fired her gun into the air, startling the group. They all turned her way.

            "Stop right there!" she commanded. She bobbed her head toward the senseless Roxton. "Let him go, right now."

            An old man stepped forward dressed completely in white except for an amulet than hung down low from his neck. "I'm afraid that's impossible. He is a killer."

            "Rubbish!" she snapped.

            To her relief, Challenger and the others came rushing out of the jungle behind her. Immediately she felt stronger. Hope crept in. She kept wishing that Roxton would regain consciousness and say something. There was blood all over his face and hands. They had placed some sort of amulet around his neck. It looked vaguely familiar to her.

            "That man is no murderer," Challenger stated.

            The crowd parted and revealed the dead man whose ghastly wounds were clearly visible. Even Marguerite stepped aside with an audible gasp. Then she angered, spinning back to the old man. "Roxton would never do such a thing! You've got the wrong man!"

            "He admitted to the crime. He is covered with this man's blood. Blood he has willingly tasted. Many times."

            "What?" The chill returned.

            "Explain yourself!" Challenger demanded.

            "He has drunk before of human blood," the old man said. "He is tainted."

            "That's preposterous!" Ned exclaimed.

            Challenger and Veronica remained strangely silent. They had seen Roxton during the Kanu incident. His actions had scared them both, even though they knew the man had not been himself. None of them had, but none had embraced their animal side as fervently as Roxton had during the transformation.

            _Did these people truly have a means to know that? Challenger thought. __Was Roxton's odd behavior over the past few hours an indication that somehow he was still affected by the Kanu spell? Perhaps it had nothing to do with Calista at all._

            The old man looked almost sad and gestured at Roxton. "Now he will be consumed by that which he has become."

            "What do you mean by that?" demanded Marguerite. She stepped closer to Roxton. She was frightened that he hadn't yet roused from his stupor. All she remembered was his awful scream. What had they done to him?

            "A man must pay for his crimes. He will pay for his." The old man turned to the others holding Roxton. "Put him in."

            Marguerite fired into the air once more and then leveled her gun at the old man. There was no mistaking her intent. "You're not putting him anywhere. He's coming home with us."

            The old man did not seem frightened. If anything, he seemed almost accepting of the situation, as if nothing would change the outcome of what was to happen. The two men did not pause in their actions but shoved Roxton into the light. With a bright flash, he disappeared.

Marguerite's gun shattered the night. One of the two men stumbled but didn't go down. In fact, a second later he straightened as if nothing had even happened. The bullet had hit him. She was sure of it, but he didn't fall.

            The light was now fading. Marguerite made a decision. A rash one, but she didn't even consider that at the moment. She ran straight for the light. She heard someone shout her name, warning her, but she ignored it and leaped.

            The light engulfed her, but within seconds it vanished leaving her in pitch darkness. She only prayed that Roxton was here with her.

***

            Challenger rushed forward just as the light faded, leaving the plateau darker and more menacing. He spun on the people around him, demanding answers. "Where are they? Bring them back!" Challenger shouted.

            The old man gazed at the professor almost paternally. "I cannot," he replied simply.

            "They were innocent!" Veronica exclaimed.

            "Perhaps the woman was, but we have already passed judgment on the man. He was guilty."

            "It's a lie," Ned shouted. "Roxton isn't a murderer. You have no proof!"

            "The proof lies before you." The old man gestured to the body on the ground.    

            "Maybe that happened before Roxton got here! This is a jungle filled with dangerous predators. Maybe Roxton was trying to help him." Ned's own pistol was pointed unwaveringly at the man who seemed unconcerned still by the exciting events and agitated states of the strangers.

            "He was over him, drenched in his blood. The man admitted to his guilt. The truth of it was in his own eyes."

            "Roxton is sick. He's not himself," Challenger said, before he realized that was not the road to travel in this conversation.

            "Challenger," Veronica hissed in warning. But it was too late.

            "He was ill, you say?" The old man regarded them curiously. "How?"

            Challenger tried to backpedal verbally and yet still not look like he was covering up something. "He had a fever. We were trying to bring him back to be tended to."

            "So feverish, he might not know who was friend and who was enemy?" the man inquired.

            Alarm bells went off in Challenger's head. "No. But he was probably confused about what happened. If he blacked out for even a moment, he might believe what you said, even though he might have been trying to help."

            "Why would he do that? Unless he believed himself capable. Perhaps he was so disoriented, he could not control his own actions. Either way a man is dead. And your friend admitted to his murder."

            "You're wrong! You don't know Roxton! He would never do this," Ned stated.

            "Perhaps not, but that has to be proven to me."

            "You would permit that?" Challenger saw hope before them.

            "If you wish to spend your time doing so, I will not stop you. That is your prerogative."

            "Yes, that is exactly what we wish to do!"

***

            Marguerite had a bad taste in her mouth and a foul smell in her nostrils. Strange sounds assailed her. She shoved herself up dizzily. She liked to say she hadn't lost consciousness but she couldn't be sure. There was no way to know where she was or how long she had been lying there.

            It was a place full of shadows and mist. She could barely see five feet in front of her and the sounds that filled the darkness were unlike any she had ever heard on or off the plateau. Fear began to creep its way over her, slow and steady, like an army of ants.

            What the hell had happened?

            Where was Roxton?

            She couldn't see him anywhere. Rising unsteadily, she tried for a better vantage point, one where she could take in the surrounding area. They had to have landed relatively near each other. But the comforting form of the hunter was nowhere to be seen.

            She didn't see how they could have gotten separated. They had been only seconds apart. Hesitatingly she called out his name. It came out of her throat quiet and just a little harried, but no comforting answer came regardless.

            "Damn it, Roxton. Don't do this to me."

            She fumbled for the pistol at her side, wishing its presence brought more reassurance than it did at the moment. She started walking, making a circular path in hopes of stumbling across Roxton. He had looked terrible when those creepy people in white had thrown him in. She couldn't believe that he was capable of getting anywhere on his own, especially after the rough trip through that light. Her own head was still pounding while her stomach flip-flopped around. 

            A sudden howl shattered the stillness. Marguerite jumped and brandished her pistol at the shadows around her. Thankfully nothing leaped out at her, but the sound was like nothing she had ever heard.

            Cautiously continuing on, she came across a familiar sight. A booted footprint.

            Roxton!

            It was definitely close to a size eleven. Marguerite let out a small shout of joy.

            She called out his name a little louder this time.

            Still no response.

            "Well, at least you're on your feet." That was a huge relief. He must have only been stunned and quickly recovered. One thing about Roxton, nothing ever kept him down for long.

            As she followed the footprints however, her elation bottomed out. One minute she was following something human and in the next moment she wasn't. Now huge clawed toes radiated out of an imprint three times the size of her hand. It didn't even look like a dinosaur's reptilian print. There were signs of a struggle all about on the ground.

            Terror swelled inside her. Something had attacked Roxton! 

            Even though she knew it was dangerous, she shouted out his name, loud and pleading. With her crappy luck of late, she probably sounded like a wounded gazelle and was attracting the attention of every predator for miles.

            Her heart drilled in her chest. She decided to follow the large beast's footprints. The thing must have surprised Roxton and carried him off since there was no other sign of the hunter anywhere. Maybe he was still alive. Please be alive, she begged him with eyes that brimmed with frightened tears. She didn't want to stay here all alone; wherever the hell 'here' was. She let her frustration and fear blossom into anger. It was enough to steel her resolve.

            She didn't know what she was going to be able to do against such a monster once she found it. The pistol might as well be a peashooter. By the sheer size of the prints, she was going up against something at least eight feet tall. But there was no choice. It had Roxton. 

            She traveled for a long time, continually following the beast's trail. It didn't bother trying to hide it, which only told Marguerite that what she was doing was most foolish. The damn thing was cocky as well as huge. It feared nothing. 

            Her foot slipped and she almost fell. Grabbing onto a nearby tree limb, she righted herself and looked down to see what she had stepped in. Her stomach rolled. It was blood and it was all over the ground. The beast's prints were all around. She picked up a shred of cloth, blood soaked, blue and very familiar.

            Oh God, it had eaten… 

Roxton…. 

Marguerite felt faint and she grasped the tree tightly as her vision caved in. She was too late. He was dead. _He was dead! Her sob burst from out before she could stop it. tears falling in streams down her face. She was too late._

            "Oh, John."

            Then she heard it. Something was in the shadows, circling her. Its breathing was loud and throaty. It wasn't trying to be stealthy. It wanted its prey to know it was out there, stalking, hunting. 

            Marguerite's pistol was out and firing, praying that the noise would frighten the thing away. "Get out of here," she screamed. Resisting the urge to empty her pistol into the terrifying darkness, she paused, waiting to see if perhaps the beast had run off. 

            But the sound of its breathing was now on her other side, practically in her ear. She spun around, pistol aiming, desperately searching for a clear target in the swirling fog. "I swear I'll kill you for what you've done, you miserable monster!"

            Then something came rushing out of the mist. It was huge, covered in gray mottled fur, mostly huge claws and long teeth. She screamed and fired point blank as it filled her vision. It lifted back a long arm and swatted her like she was an annoying pest. Everything went dark.

***

To be continued in Chapter Five


	5. Chapter Five: Flesh and Bone

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Five

"Flesh and Bone"

            Her head throbbed to beat the band, but that was the least of her worries. Every rock and branch that connected with it told her she was being dragged along the rough ground. Her booted foot was in the grip of the beast that lumbered ahead of her. Her eyes widened at the size of it. It was bipedal, almost like an apeman, but there the similarity ended. It was hunched over, but still tall and loose-limbed. Its hind legs resembled that of a dog though it stood upright. Thick gray fur covered it, short, stiff bristles that barely moved as it walked. Its massive hand had fingers that were long and thin and ended with daggers for claws that didn't retract.

            Marguerite couldn't see its head. She didn't want to either. It didn't take much imagination to know that it would be terrifying and horrible. But her leg, held by the vicious creature, was in agony. Even the leather of her boot had not stopped the beast's claws; she could see trails of blood leaking out over her knee. 

            A dark, dank cave reared up in front of them and Marguerite immediately knew they had arrived at the thing's lair. Panic filled her. She immediately began to struggle, knowing that it would give away the fact that she was conscious. Inside the cave meant death and she knew it. She'd be trapped with no other way to escape.

            To her horror, the thing turned. It's broad head swiveled toward her. She couldn't help it, she screamed. Its snout was long and filled with row upon row of sharp savage teeth. The fur around its mouth was rusted with drying blood—Roxton's blood. Huge black eyes stared at her unblinking. They were so large she saw her own terrified reflection with in them.

            The beast shook her and roared so loud she thought her eardrums burst. Marguerite raised her arms in a pale imitation of defense. Its breath was raw and fetid and spittle rained down upon her. She knew the end was here.

            But then it turned away and entered the cave, dragging her along with it. Her hands scrabbled at the rock walls, trying for a firm handhold, but there was nothing. The outside light, pathetic as it was, receded all too quickly from her view, plunging her into darkness.

            She was flung unceremoniously in a corner, her body rolling until it connected with the far wall. Dazed and aching, she lay there, watching the dim shape of the thing stalk about the cave. She could barely see its pale form in the shadows.

            _Oh God, please don't let it come near me, she begged._

            Its guttural grunting and snarling filled the confined space of the cave and as it reverberated off the walls it sounded as it was all around her. She shrank back as far as she could. Fumbling fingers felt her holster on the off chance a miracle had happened and she had put her pistol back somehow. But it was a hollow hope. 

            Her hand brushed against something and she looked down. Her vision was just starting to adjust to the limited light. What she saw did nothing to help settle her nerves. It was a bone. Flesh still clung to it. She screamed and scrambled away. 

            It attracted the attention of her captor. Its shape loomed out of the shadows and towered over her, a vision of teeth and savagery. Marguerite screamed again! She kicked out at the thing.

            "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

            If only she had her gun….

            The beast stared at her, spittle dripped from its jaws and puddled on the ground between her knees. It would only take a single snap from that mouth to cut her in two. Its long tongue flopped out and dragged its way across her wounded foot, tasting the salty blood there. 

            It smacked its lips hungrily. Marguerite, eyes wide with horror, did the only thing she could do. She struck it across the face. Its head rocked with the blow. Then it roared and she was blasted flat against the wall by its force. 

            _Oh crap! What did I do?_

            Her hand found the bone beside her and she brandished it as best she could. Her mind realizing too late that it was a meal not a weapon. The creature snatched it out of her hands and squatted down on its haunches in front of her. 

            Its jaws crunched the bone easily, like it was a carrot. She knew that the minute the thing finished the appetizer, it would come for the main course. 

Her. 

            While she waited for her demise, she noted that there were bloodstains on the beast's gray fur, still wet and glistening in the dim light. Either Roxton or herself had managed to hit the thing with their weapons. Though it didn't seem to have affected it in any way to help the situation. The constitution of the creature must be incredible; either that or its brain was too small to recognize such things.

            The last of the bone disappeared into its maw. Marguerite's heart drilled against her chest. She was next. Her only consolation was that soon she'd be with Roxton. 

            To her amazement, the beast just squatted there, staring at her. Maybe it was trying to decide what part of her would taste best first. It only made her angry. All this waiting. All this fear.

            She snapped at it. "For pete's sake, if you're going to eat me, just do it!"

            The beast snarled and reached out to grab her leg, but then shoved itself away and stalked to the other side, lifting its voice into a ferocious howl. Marguerite had no choice but to cover her ears, or else be struck deaf. 

            _Was it calling others, its family, to the dinner table?_

            Horrible thoughts filled Marguerite. She wanted Roxton to come and save her like he always did. The thought of dying alone had always terrified her. For two years a part of her never even considered it, not while Roxton was beside her. He always had been there, warding off disaster after disaster, never far from her side. She had come to expect it, and the long imbedded fear of her younger days had faded. 

            Until now.

            Now that fear surged again. She was alone. She doubted the others would be coming through the portal. They were left behind to face the wrath of the figures in white. Only she had been foolish enough to follow after Roxton into hell.

            Finally the beast quieted and sat hunched over on the opposite side of the cave. It stayed that way for over an hour, she estimated. Every time it shifted she expected to die, that it had become hungry again and she was next on the course. But it only swayed back and forth in a manic fashion and then stilled again. Its eyes rarely left her. She shivered under its menacing gaze.

            Tears unashamedly filled her eyes, knowing that the only reason she still lived was because the beast had already eaten prior to her capture. 

            He was gone. Roxton was dead. She couldn't believe it. After all this time she had finally accepted the fact that she loved him, against all reason, against all odds. She had forgotten her past, accepted the fact that she had no control over her heart, and let herself love the one man she knew she shouldn't. And now Fate had played the cruelest joke of all upon her. 

            She had been happy for only a miniscule moment in time and now she was plunged back into the misery that had become her trademark. There was no hope for her, no future. She would escape her past by hiding in the belly of a horrible beast. She shuddered, wishing that Roxton's arms would hold her tight and ease her fears. But now that would never happen.

            She tried to stifle her sobs, not wanting to attract the beast's attention; she knew they were loud and pathetic, carried by the echo in the cave. She almost didn't care; she almost wanted it over with. She had never been good at demonstrating patience. 

            When the beast lumbered to its feet, she let out a startled cry. She glanced around desperately for some weapon, anything that she could use to defend herself. There was no way she was going down without a fight. Marguerite Krux was going to make this creature rue the day it had chosen her as a meal!

            The beast's jaws snapped open and closed a few times and it moaned as it glared at her. Then it turned away and exited the cave.  Marguerite almost shouted with relief. She sat there frozen for a second not believing her reprieve. Then she scrambled to her feet and made her way to the cave's entrance, following the glimmer of light like a beacon. This was her chance to escape. Maybe if she made her way back to the clearing where she appeared, she could make it back home to the plateau.

            A rumble filled her ears and the shaft of daylight was dimming, as if an eye was closing. She realized what was happening. Letting out a shout, she ran forward into the new deeper darkness. She slammed into a rock. A huge boulder had been rolled in front of the cave's entrance. The beast was determined to keep her inside.

            "NO!" she screamed, hands futilely scratching the hard surface. Sobs fell from her lips. "…no…"

***

Challenger knelt beside the body of the young man, carefully examining his torn throat. The professor spoke quietly to himself, going over the evidence before him. Ned hovered around behind him, not sure he really wanted to see what Challenger was muttering about. Veronica did not take her eyes off the strangers. They seemed quiet enough but so did half the things in the jungle before they pounced with blood lust in their eyes.

Finally Ned could stand it no longer. "Anything?"

Challenger stroked his beard, something he did often to help calm his chaotic thoughts while he was ciphering through the multitude of possibilities. The wound on the dead man certainly appeared genuine, and unfortunately, the slashing claws and teeth of a dinosaur did not make the bite marks. But whether they were indeed human bite marks was harder to determine. There was a great deal of blood on the ground.

Almost too much.

Especially if Roxton was, well, hungry.

That alone gave Challenger some hope. He related his thoughts to Ned. 

"What does that mean?" the reporter asked in frustration.

"Uncertain." The professor rose to his feet.

"That's just great." 

"Deduction isn't something that evolves in minutes, Malone. More clues need to be gathered."

"Meanwhile, Roxton and Marguerite are God knows where and in what kind of horrible danger." 

"I'm well aware of that, Malone. What have you found out?" Challenger asked him.

Malone sighed and flipped open his notebook. "The old man calls himself Leair. And their tribe, for lack of a better term, are called the Noir. They've been on the plateau forever." He narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer to the professor, lowering his voice. "Call me crazy, but I think there's more to them. They keep regarding me as if I was just a kid or something. Like I'm too stupid to understand what they're telling me. I don't like it."

Challenger merely grunted and then walked over to Leair. 

The old man of the Noir smiled at his approach. "Have you learned anything that would help you understand what we have done?"

"I found no proof to dispute what you've claimed, but nor have I found anything to absolutely corroborate it either."

"That is unfortunate."

Challenger glared hotly at him.

"I mean," Leair explained, "that we cannot undo what has been done without specific evidence. Not that we could regardless."

"Excuse me?" This was startling news and not one that Challenger wanted to hear.

Leair shrugged. "We might be able to save the woman if we could locate her. After all, she wasn't supposed to be sent. There is still a chance she is alive." The old man's face fell slightly. "A very slim chance."

"Just where the hell did you send them?" Ned demanded angrily.

"To the Realm of Shadows. It is not a good place. Only the most dangerous and unpleasant of monsters and criminals are sent there. A woman of your ilk would not last long."

"And Roxton? What about Roxton?" Challenger asked, stepping up boldly to Leair. 

"His punishment was severe. Even if by some miracle you are able to sway us in our original determination, which I sincerely doubt, he is most likely already lost. And your female friend is alone in a prison most vile."

***

            Alone in the darkness, Marguerite tried to plan. There was little strewn about the cave, mostly old bones and dead leaves. Nothing she could use as a weapon. Using a branch about her height, she tried to force the rock away, but the branch eventually shattered under the strain. 

Her fear of being abandoned welled up again after all these years, a feeling she had long tried to repress for it weakened her. It was something she carried with her always and had struggled long to overcome. It had molded her into who she was today, a bitter and guarded individual that trusted no one, not even a good soul like John Roxton. She sat there among the pieces of her broken branch and cried and cursed. More the latter than the former and it helped get her back on her feet and thinking once more. 

            She was running out of time. The cave was deep but there was no other exit from it. Freedom lay only beyond the boulder in the front. She wished that she had some other means to move it. Dynamite, Roxton's muscle, anything.

            At the thought of the hunter, her resolve plummeted. She couldn't go a few minutes without the man popping into her thoughts; he had become that much a part of her life. She still couldn't accept the fact that he was gone. The plateau had tried to kill him many times, so many she couldn't count them all. But each time he managed to survive, sometimes beyond her comprehension. It was his pig-headedness, his tenacity, his sheer luck. But this time, all those had failed him. She had failed him. 

It was she who had taken the initiative and followed after him in hopes of rescuing him. She had committed a selfless act. Surely that should have counted for something. But it hadn't. Could life really be that cruel as to deny her a chance of redemption by saving someone she loved?

            She knew the answer to that. After all this time on the plateau, she had almost forgotten how cruel the real world was. It had slapped her down more times than she could count, brutally, horribly, without mercy. And now it had fooled her, made her drop her guard and then without an ounce of mercy, it had struck its cruelest blow.

            It had taken John Roxton from her.

            Tears came in a rush and no amount of anger was going to stop them this time. She curled in a corner of the cave, letting her grief wash over her finally. A part of her died then, a part that had just been coming alive once more. It was piece of her that she had long abandoned as beyond hope. The agony of its second death was more than she could bear. 

***

            Challenger paced angrily. Roxton and Marguerite were counting on him and he was no closer to a solution to this mess than he was a few hours ago. Time was no doubt running out. According to Leair, it had already run out for Roxton.

            It was that thought that made Challenger's ire flare. He was the oldest and the wisest, and when brawn was not an issue then it fell to him to see the group through the situation safely. Only he was failing. Miserably.

            "Leair!" he shouted. 

The old man in white appeared, sighing ever so slightly as if steeling himself for another round of debate with a small child over why the sky was blue. The rest of the Noir had disappeared with no rhyme or reason. Only the old man remained to answer their questions.

            "Leair, you said that Roxton's crime was of conscious cannibalism, but that's not the case here. I will confess that Roxton was infected over a year ago with an illness by a vampiric being…"

            "Named Calista. Yes, we know."

            That took Challenger by surprise. "You know?"

            "She was well known to us and very elusive. She kept her location well hidden."

            "She lived in a bloody castle in the middle of a jungle. Do you mean to tell me you couldn't find it?"

            "Have you ever found it again?" Leair inquired.

            Challenger frowned. He had to admit that after the whole affair they had indeed tried to find the castle again only to come up empty. There had been some discussion of using the castle as a base; it was far better fortified and could have been a magnificent slice of civilization in the midst of the jungle. But they had never been able to find it again. Challenger chalked it up to poor charts and navigation. Those had been trying times and their minds had been concentrating elsewhere.

            Leair smiled. "Calista kept the castle in another realm and after you departed its location, it returned there. It's still there most likely, empty and cold, and deservedly so."

            "How do you know all this?" Malone challenged. "You make it sound as if you were there."

            "In a way."

            Challenger stepped forward. "If that is the case, then you know that she passed on that illness to Roxton. This disease affects the brain. This is the illness of which we believe Roxton suffers. He is not himself and therefore not responsible for his actions in the death of your compatriot."

            "On the contrary," Leair said. "He is still at fault, though not for the reasons you claim. That disease, though cruel and inhuman, does not discount the fact that Roxton willingly chose to take a life to feed his own hunger. And I shudder to bring up the Kanu."

            Again, Challenger's confidence was shaken. _How on earth did these people know so much about what happened on the plateau? "What about the Kanu?"_

            "Roxton again fed on two members of the Kanu tribe. Willingly."

            "No!" Challenger shouted. He had had enough of these wild accusations. "Not willingly. We were all undergoing transformations. That cursed stone had marked each of us. No one was responsible for what happened during the latter part of the process. Roxton's no more responsible for his actions than I am for stripping a tree of its bark."

            Leair actually pondered this for a moment. "And yet you are human, possessing the capability of reason and thought."

            "Not near the end," piped up Malone. "Marguerite and I ate live mice during our transformations." Veronica looked horrified at the journalist. She hadn't heard about that part. Malone continued on hurriedly. "I couldn't stop myself, neither could she. It was as if it was a … natural thing to do."

            "And besides," Veronica piped up, "you can't count the Kanu. They were toads not human beings. In that case it's not cannibalism."

            Leair stood thoughtfully processing all this. "An most interesting theory. You consider such things natural?"

            Challenger immediately realized what Leair was implying. "It _is natural. Even as human beings we are still part of the natural order of things. As animals we cannot be held accountable for what we do."_

            "A circle of life so to speak."

            "Exactly."

            "But you don't believe that as a higher order you should be held accountable to a higher sense of responsibility?"

            "Of course," declared Challenger hotly. "But when forces greater than our own manipulate us we are at their mercy as much as nature herself. These were not conscionable acts perpetrated by us."

            Veronica could tell that Challenger had made his point brilliantly and for a moment she felt sure they would win. Leair appeared contemplative. But then the old man shook his head. 

            "Can you prove that Roxton was indeed under the influence of this disease?"

            "Isn't our word good enough?" Ned demanded.

            "Frankly no, not for a crime such as this. A man is dead."

            Challenger shook his head. "I'm still not convinced Roxton did this."

Leair raised an eyebrow.

            "If Roxton's blood lust had manifested as you claim, then why was there so much blood around the body? Roxton hadn't fed. And the wounds were not consistent with the wounds he made while under the influence of Calista's disease. Those were puncture marks; this man's throat was ripped open."

            "Immaterial. We may have just interrupted him before he could feed. And perhaps he was not under the influence of this disease. Perhaps he was perfectly willing to kill on his own accord this time."

            "You have no proof of any of your claims!" Ned shouted.

            "And why may I ask were you watching our treehouse these past few days?" Veronica interjected.

            Surprised, Leair responded, "We came only once to judge Roxton's state."

            "So you knew of his ailment?" Challenger asked.

            "And you didn't think to warn him, warn us so that we could help avert this?" Ned was furious at their blatant complacency while one of them suffered.

            "After the Kanu vanished, we suspected that such an incident might again invoke Roxton's blood lust. We were right."

            "One thing had nothing to do with the other," Challenger argued.

            "And you weren't there just once," Veronica pointed out. "There was someone watching Roxton's room for quite a while. The footprints were just outside our perimeter."

            Leair denied the statement. "We came only once, saw what we needed and departed to make our decision. We had no intention of confronting anyone at that point. A council was to be called."

            "Then how do you explain what we found?"

            "I cannot," Leair admitted.

            Challenger stroked his beard. "Don't you find it odd that in a jungle this size, Roxton managed to flee into the darkness and find you?"

            "No. The ailment from which he suffers only heightens those senses and instincts. He could have easily sensed our presence and hunted us."

            "Rubbish! Roxton's flight from the treehouse had nothing to do with you."

            "It had to do with Marguerite," Ned whispered.

            "We tracked him for miles," Veronica persisted, not wanting to think about what the heiress was going through while they wasted valuable time. They had to continue to press their point. "His path never once crossed yours until this very clearing."

            "Roxton didn't hunt you; he stumbled across you." Challenger stepped close to Leair, desperation etched on his face.

            "You are just guessing. And besides, whether his attack was intentional or not, it does not change the fact that he killed a member of the Noir. We were not wrong in what we did. Roxton's punishment was just."

            "Roxton's punishment was not just! Do _you have proof? Did you witness the attack? Did anyone?"_

            "We saw enough."

            "But not the actual act!" Challenger insisted fervently.

            "No."

            "Then you also have no proof, you're acting only on an assumption," Challenger exclaimed.

            Ned nodded. "Same as us."

            Leair considered them for the first time with a hint of hesitancy. Challenger pressed his advantage.

            "You might well be condemning an innocent man to hell, based solely on superficial evidence. Can you live with that on your conscience?"

            "What do you propose we do?"

            "Let us go into this realm and find out if Roxton is infected with Calista's disease. If he really does have an uncontrollable blood lust as you claim then he would have killed again."

            Veronica felt a chill. "You mean Marguerite."

            Challenger looked at her from over his shoulder, his face grim. "Quite possibly." 

***

To be continued Chapter 6


	6. Chapter Six: Truth Unveiled

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Six

"Truth Unveiled"

            The sound of the boulder being pulled back jarred Marguerite out of her stupor. She jerked away and shrank back against the stonewall. The beast had returned.

            It came in dragging something pale and white behind it. The carcass was bloody and still. Marguerite couldn't tell what it was, only that it was dead. Leaves and dirt matted the meat as if the thing had dragged it clear across the plateau, or wherever the hell they were now. She couldn't tell if the carcass was animal or human. The creature's black obsidian eyes stared at her as it stalked across the way and then fell into a crouch over its prize. 

            Its massive jaws tore off great chunks of raw flesh and swallowed them whole. Marguerite's stomach rolled and she forced her gaze away. She realized then that the boulder was still cast aside and the path to freedom lay before her. Escape might be possible while the thing fed. The way it was ravenously devouring its meal seemed to suggest it might just ignore her if she carefully made her way to the cave entrance.

            It was worth a try. Anything was. She had the sinking feeling still that she was destined to be the dessert. Using the wall as leverage she slowly gained her feet, her eyes never leaving the creature. The sounds as its jaws crushed through bone and gristle was a horrifying cadence, one that gave her the motivation to continue moving. With her hands braced against the rock, she eased around it, heading toward the entrance. 

            She was almost to the tunnel leading out when its black eyes fell upon her. It stopped chewing. She froze. It rose up from its meal, lips curling back over its long teeth. 

            Marguerite knew she'd never get another chance. She ran. Her breath escaping in frightened sobs, she tried to make it outside. But suddenly a massive clawed hand swiped her aside. She crashed into a wall and lay there stunned, not able to tell if the roaring in her ears was from the blow or from the beast.

            It was right over her. If only she had her knife she could have stabbed its heart. Then her eyes fell upon a small amulet buried in the fur. She let out a startled cry and almost reached out. 

The design, she recognized the design! It was the one that the figures in white had draped over Roxton before they threw him into the light.

            "Roxton!" Her voice was hoarse and plaintive.

            The beast stepped back at her voice, its roar fading to a quiet growl.

            "John," she tried again. "Oh God, please tell me its you." She reached out hesitatingly, praying she was right. 

            The creature slashed out at her and she barely pulled her arm back in time. 

            "Well, no need to get surly about it," she snapped out. 

What if she was wrong? What if all things in this horrible place wore these things, like shackles? Maybe this was where all evil things were banished. Perhaps this was their version of a prison. She could be trying to make friends with something vile.

            The creature retreated to its meal. It continued to eat but its eyes never wandered from her.  

            But if this thing were Roxton, it would explain perhaps why it hadn't killed her yet. Some faded memory or deep-rooted intuition was keeping him at bay. She remembered what the old man had said: 'now he will be consumed by that which he has become.' Did he mean that Roxton would pay by living off the flesh of animals? Of people? 

            Marguerite's face formed into a horrified grimace. 

            "Roxton," she tried again, desperate to fire some sort of recognition in him.

            If she was right.

            If the damage was reversible.

            If she would survive the gamble.

            Too many ifs. But she had run out of other options. Yet in her heart she knew she was right. The amulet has the same. Wasn't it? She had seen it only briefly but it was familiar. She had sensed it then and she knew it now. 

            The beast stared at her, its lips curling back over the long row of dagger like teeth, dripping with saliva, its muzzle stained crimson with drying blood. Yellow-red eyes narrowed but that meant little. It could be sizing her for a meal much less trying to grasp a lost memory.

            She took a step closer, her hand reaching out. It rose above her snarling and threatening, a mass of bristling, antagonized muscle. She shrank back, making herself as small as possible. It stalked over to her, its long arms trailing behind it. To Marguerite, this was the end. She had taken the gamble and lost. It wasn't Roxton, merely her death sentence.

            But then once again, it stopped in its advance, seemingly indecisive and angry that it was doing so. It retreated back to its corner finally, content to eat its other meal. 

            "Oh John. It is you, isn't it," she whispered. "What did they do to you?" There was no other explanation. Why else would such a savage beast keep her alive?

How many hours had it been already? Twelve hours at least. She was a perfect meal for the creature and yet it continued to hunt elsewhere. She really didn't want to know what it was eating. 

            And it wasn't an "it" anymore. It was John Roxton. The man she loved. 

            "You won't eat me, will you, John?" she said softly.

            The beast looked up from its meal and regarded her, its head tilting slightly, watching her, almost as if it was listening to her.

            Marguerite continued to speak, keeping her voice low, her tone soft. "I understand now. And we'll find a way to get through this. Challenger is probably working on getting to us right now. He'll fix all this. I'm sure of it. You just have to hold out till then. Don't give in to the blood lust. You did it before; you can do it again. Right?"

            The creature huffed and resumed its meal. The sounds of which were most horrifying, as its teeth gnashed through its gristly feast. She tried to think of something else, concentrate on more immediate concerns, like keeping John at bay. Her talking seemed to calm it.

            Yes, she lamented. And that should have been her first clue that she was insane. The real Roxton would have started an argument with her in record time. 

            Her foot throbbed incessantly now and blood was continuing to drip from it. She ripped off the sleeve of her blouse. The creature—Roxton—was watching her, but at least he didn't react as if it was a threat. Trying to stifle her gasps of pain as she removed her boot, she prayed that she wasn't sounding like an aperitif. Thankfully the strong leather of the boot had protected her foot somewhat. The gashes were deep but manageable. Unfortunately, she had nothing to clean it with. So she just quickly wrapped up the wounds as best she could with the material from her sleeve. 

            She glanced over at Roxton and was startled to see him in a half crouch, his eyes locked on her leg. He swayed back and forth like a patient in an asylum, crazed and torn with indecision. 

            "Brilliant, Marguerite," she chastised herself. "Go ahead and remind John that you're bleeding like a rare slice of filet mignon." Her voice became firm, more reminiscent of her natural tone. She directed it at him. "Don't even think about it, Roxton. Go back to gnawing on whatever it is that you brought with you. I'm not on the menu."        

            Rising to his full height, the beast roared. Instead of cringing, she met his reaction with resolve and strength. A little bit of fear had foolishly vanished with the realization that it was Roxton and not some unwitting beast. "Complain all you want," she chided. 

            She was taking a horrible chance and she knew it. But she was tired of being afraid. If she was going to die here at the hands of this creature – at the hands of John—then so be it. She was exhausted, in terrible pain, fed up with feeling dirty, dragged around in the dark, and kept in a dank and smelly cave. There were just some things that she couldn't tolerate. 

            Roxton was pacing a path in front of her, obviously torn. His blood lust must be raging but somehow he was keeping it suppressed when it cried out for her blood. 

            "That's it, John. Don't let it win. You're stronger than that. If you really love me you can do it." She almost laughed. Here was the test of his true devotion for her if ever there was one. If you really love someone, don't eat them. 

            The battle waging over him was a terrible thing to witness. It was driving him mad. Its own claws raked up and down his arms as Roxton tried to distract the instincts that were surging to the surface in his bestial state. It broke Marguerite's heart to see it. 

            "John, it's all right. We'll get through this. Like everything else in this godforsaken place, we'll get through it together." Her mind cast back to a time long ago when she was singer in a seedy club in Paris. She had calmed rowdy patrons with a song a time or two. Perhaps that would work here also.

            "I've always heard that music calms the savage beast." She racked her brain for a quiet melody. After all these years, the words were a little rusty and her throat had long since grown weak with disuse. Still, she started humming a quiet song. It was a sad song, which had been her forte in those days. Adrienne had been the one to sing of romance and passion back then. By then, Marguerite had already lost her faith in love.

            Adrienne Montclair. There was a ghost from her past that she hadn't thought of in a long time. Now twice in just a few days. It was her necklace Roxton had rescued from that treacherous little monkey. Her necklace that Marguerite now held as her own as a reminder of all that had happened to them in Paris. She missed her good friend who deserved a far better fate than the one that had been dealt her.

            Lost in the memories, she glanced up to see that Roxton was listening to her again. He was standing over her, breathing normally, head once again cocked to the side. He was so close she could reach out and touch him. But she didn't, recalling how badly it had turned out before. His silver fur was drenched in blood from his wounds but he didn't seem to notice them. She averted her eyes and concentrated on her singing. 

            Most of the words were wrong and if the Fat Man, her sleazy boss, had heard her, he would have fired her on the spot. But it didn't matter. Roxton was intrigued. 

            She sang for twenty minutes. Her dry throat had given out but she was afraid to stop, afraid that it would only agitate Roxton. But when she saw his ears flick back and a grimace flit over his lips, she let the last note trail off. Roxton's eyes remained rooted on her. There was a rumble in his chest that wasn't a growl. He was much too relaxed for that. 

            Marguerite forgot herself and reached out to him. "John…"

            The ears immediately went flat against his head and he reared back out of reach. She let her arm drop.

With a deep sigh, he rose and retreated to his corner. Settling himself, he began licking his wounds.

Marguerite scowled. "Really, Roxton. That is so unsanitary." His eyes flicked to her and his great dark tongue paused in its ministrations. "If you would stop being so stubborn, I could take care of it."

But even as a beast, Roxton was incredibly willful. He resumed his own treatment and Marguerite decided to get a little rest while she could. She lay down but didn't shut her eyes. The light from outside was fading and soon the cave would be dipped in darkness once more. It terrified her. She would be alone in the cave with him and she would lose track of him. But she had no choice. Her head was pounding madly and exhaustion was beating down her defenses. Eventually she would drift off. It would be better to do it now while Roxton was calm and occupied. 

Soon she could hold out no longer and sleep settled over her, her body wracked by occasional shivers as she huddled to preserve warmth.

Roxton watched her from where he was, his wounds forgotten. A memory flickered in him: cold, snow, a woman, a child, and then death. Then another memory surfaced: a cage, a hot iron, a woman beside him, tending a wound.

The constant was the woman. The one that lay before him. The one that challenged him. The one that he wanted to kill. 

Every moment that thought consumed him. Eventually he would not be able to hold it back. Already it was difficult to fight. His brain could barely grasp another thought, so desperate he was for the taste of her sweet blood.

However, the thought of killing her made another part of him shudder with horror. There was a cursed piece of his soul that was poised to become even darker with that single act. And that alone was what held him in check. But it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

****

The rip in the fabric of reality shimmered in front of the explorers. Leair had agreed to enter into the prison to determine Roxton's innocence by evidence of his own acts. If Roxton had killed anything human, then he would remain a prisoner. 

One thing kept nagging at Veronica. Leair kept saying that Roxton's punishment fit his crime, but she didn't understand what that meant. At first she thought it was just that Roxton would be left with his disease, lusting after blood to feed his hunger, fighting to survive unarmed against ferocious beasts and madmen. But a small part of her felt that there was something more to it than just that. 

Leair led the way through the hole, telling them that the ride would not be pleasant but that he would deflect as much of the effects as he could. The old man had not exaggerated. 

Ned thought seriously of being sick, while Challenger staggered to his knees. Veronica only barely managed to keep the professor from falling face down to the ground. Leair was unaffected by the trip.

He quickly touched each of them on the shoulder and the dizziness and pounding within their skulls eased abruptly, allowing them to get a good sense of their new surroundings for the first time. It didn't calm their fears.

It was a dark place full of shadows and fog. There wasn't a speck of green anywhere and the trees were gnarled and diseased. How anything could thrive in such a place perplexed Challenger. But Leair indicated that they were not alone in this place, this prison. The Noir had banished many criminals here and other things as well that did not belong in the Lost World. Challenger had seen enough of the strange and bizarre creatures that inhabited the plateau normally, that he shuddered to think what other things were too horrible to share their jungle space. 

It had been hours since Roxton and Marguerite had been sent here. Hours to be subjected to the horrors that this unregulated prison could throw at them, alone and defenseless. In any other normal situation, Challenger would have hoped that the two wayward members had somehow found each other. Roxton would protect Marguerite with his very life. But in this instance, such a thing could mean Marguerite's death at Roxton's hands. Which meant she was better alone. Challenger couldn't determine which was a worse fate for the young heiress. 

            Ned was already scanning the ground looking for tracks of either of the two missing explorers. Veronica though was standing near Leair, her face a mask of dread. She finally turned to the old man.

            "You said that Roxton's punishment would fit his crime. What did you mean by that? What did you do to him?"

            Leair looked almost sad for a moment before answering the young woman. "He was made a wendigo."

            The blood in both Challenger and Veronica's faces drained. Only Ned looked confused. 

            "What's a wendigo?" he asked.

            Veronica snarled at Leair. "Why didn't you just kill him? It would have been more humane."

            Ned touched Veronica's arm. "I don't understand. What did they do to Roxton?"

            "They turned him into a creature of sheer myth and legend," whispered Challenger. "One that strips the flesh of human beings."

            Horror and nausea washed over Ned. "I've never heard of it."

            "It's a legend of a man who once tasted human flesh and was then cursed to continually crave it. The act eventually transformed him into a ghastly beast for all eternity."

            "The Zanga have a similar legend," Veronica hissed. "It happened much the same way. Warriors have claimed to have seen this creature, but only a very few. Many deaths have been attributed to it."

            "We tried to banish as many of them as we could find," Leair offered, hoping to ease their despair. "The plateau has been free of them for many years. We learned to recognize the signs early. That is why we were watching Roxton. We had hoped he would not give in to his blood lust."

            "I still don't believe he did!" Challenger snapped, his anger manifesting again. "For a race as old as yours obviously is, you are still barbaric. How dare you seek to judge us?"

            "That is our purpose. Life cannot be allowed to continue unchecked. Otherwise, the entire plateau would soon be led into barbaric unrest. It teeters on that as it is. This world must advance on its own merit, undisturbed by demons and monsters."

            "But you're messing with the lives of people who have done nothing wrong." Ned was outraged by the Noir's moral superiority. 

            "So you keep telling me. We shall see."

            Veronica took point and began a widening search pattern in order to find their lost friends, hopefully in time.

***

To be continued in Chapter Seven


	7. Chapter Seven: A Dish Best Served Cold

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Seven

"A Dish Best Served Cold"

            The small figure of a boy slipped into the cave, treading quietly but fearlessly.  It moved the boulder as easily as if it was made of paper. His smile of glee faded to one of dark anger as he saw Marguerite sleeping exhaustedly in the corner. 

The beast watched the child's entrance warily, its snout lifting as a growl rumbled in its chest.

            The boy strode over to the beast and slapped it hard across the muzzle. The great head rocked back and blood quickly flowed over its long teeth as their sharpness sliced into his lips. It howled with rage and rose up on its hind legs. Still the boy wasn't afraid. He raised his hand and Roxton in his bestiary form was slammed back against the wall and held there by an invisible force. In the boy's hand he held a glowing orb that shifted in hue from white to rose to light azure. But every few seconds it darkened with a gray brown hue.

            The noise roused Marguerite from a terror filled slumber and she shoved herself up and back against the stone of the cave. Her eyes struggled to see anything in the dimness. It took far too long for them to adjust, but when they did, she recognized the small form in front of her. Her blood ran ice cold.

            "Osric!"

            The lad turned toward her, his face slipping again into a sweet, sickly smile. "Ah, Marguerite. You're awake. I'm so very surprised to see you alive. My pet here hasn't been doing what he's supposed to." His outstretched hand closed about the small glowing orb. "Bad boy," he reprimanded. The beast howled in agony, its great chest heaving against the pain.

            "Stop it!" she shouted.

            "But why, Marguerite? Don't you want me to save you from this horrible creature?" His fingers unclenched from around the orb. The creature slumped.

            "That's not your pet," she snarled. "It's Roxton and you know it!" 

            Everything became crystal clear suddenly to her. Osric's presence was the final piece of the puzzle. He had long waited for a day to take his revenge on the two people who had defeated his attempt to return to power. Roxton's sudden blood lust was not the resurgence of his disease but was merely symptoms brought on by the evil man-child Osric. Now she understood why the amulet had looked so familiar; it was the same one Osric had worn about his neck, a symbol of his crime.

            The child grinned evilly. "Well, I'm very impressed. You figured it out all by yourself. Yes, this poor stupid creature is indeed our honorable Lord John Roxton. Now degraded to only a poor, stupid beast, a wendigo. But once again he has failed to do what I ask." The last of his words dripped with anger and again his fingers crushed the orb. 

            Roxton shrieked and writhed against the invisible, painful bonds that imprisoned him. His fury was rising in his brain as a red haze. The object of his hate was near. 

            Marguerite came to her feet swiftly and strode over to Osric. "Leave him alone!" In her fear for Roxton, she took too bold a step. Somehow, that orb was connected to Roxton.

            Osric swung towards her menacingly, his fingers unconsciously relinquishing their torturous hold on the orb. Marguerite drew up short, remembering that this child was dangerous, a devil and someone not to be dealt with as if it was misbehaving.

            "Don't you see, Marguerite? He was supposed to kill you. Eat you. The most heinous thing a man like him could ever do. It would shatter his soul and leave him hardly less than a man." Osric smiled manically and took a step toward her.  Marguerite backed up. "I've been coveting this little piece of Roxton's soul for months now, waiting for the perfect inspiration to make him pay for what he had done to me."

            Marguerite's eyes centered on the orb. Roxton's soul. Was it possible? It looked so filthy, more brownish-gray than the pure white it should be. Her face twisted with horror. "What did you do to it?"

            "Me? Do to it? This is the natural color of a man's soul once he's murdered in cold blood. He's killed his own brother; he's eaten the flesh of a human being. He's tainted, Marguerite. This is the soul of the man you love." Osric's laughter rang out clear and loud in the cave, its echo filling her head with its horrid sound. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

            "I don't believe you," she gasped. "You've done that to it somehow."

            Osric sighed heavily. "I've done nothing to it. Well, except fan Roxton's lust for blood a bit, but he's always had that. It was all too easy to make it rise these days, thanks to the Kanu. I was able to make my jailers believe that Roxton had indeed killed again. A little blood in his mouth, a little dream here, a little vision there, and suddenly, Roxton believed it completely. His blood lust had returned. Roxton can be deliciously manipulated. It's what I love about him.

"The Noir believed the evidence I planted, which was plain enough. Roxton was guilty and the punishment…" Osric did a little dance. "Oh how joyous and perfect was the punishment. Roxton, a dumb miserable beast to obey my every whim here in this pathetic plane they banished me to. You, though, were a delightful surprise! He may not have killed anyone yet in the real world, but he was supposed to have killed and eaten you. Now that he is no more than an animal, he should have devoured your flesh. Then I would have made him human again and allow him remember the sweet horror of knowing what he did. Something for him to contemplate for eternity while he shares my misery. His madness would be delectable."

            "You're insane," she shouted

            "Absolutely!" Osric turned away from her and back to Roxton. "Get up!" he commanded him. 

            Roxton rose onto tremulous legs. His whole body ached and his vision was nothing but a blur. Another blow from Osric's hand snapped his head to the side. 

"Kill her! Now!" Osric commanded.

Roxton snarled and turned his head toward the tall, slim figure to his left, the frightened one that had been with him these past hours in the cave. The smell of her blood rose up again in his nostrils. His empty gut gnawed at him. He was ravenous again, so much so it was agony.

"Roxton, no!" came the weak plea.

Osric leaned in close to the hunter. "Kill her and I'll set you free." His small hand was rolling the orb in his palm, making the hues dance fervently.

Roxton couldn't clasp a single thought in his brain save that he was hurting. And to feed was to make the pain stop. He stalked toward her, his long claws scraping the stone.

Marguerite backpedaled away from him. "John, listen to me. It's Osric! Remember him! He's doing this!" She darted to the side.

Roxton cut her off and Marguerite scrambled the other way. But he was too fast. The creature's eyes were blazing a yellowish red and pinned on her like she was a feast.

"JOHN!"

Roxton reared back, shaking his head. For a brief moment, something flickered. The memories came again: the man and the woman; two nooses; an agonizing wound; a soothing hand; a tender kiss.

Osric snarled and squeezed the orb, disgusted now. He was no longer amused by this game. It was time to end it. Roxton howled in agony with his last breath. His chest had seized.

"No!" Marguerite ran at Osric, past the dying Roxton, and slammed into the little boy, wickedly ramming her fist into his face.  

Taken by surprise, the child fell back. The orb flew from his hand and rolled away into a dark corner of the cave. Furious, Osric grabbed her throat and began to squeeze. "I don't care how you die anymore. But die you will!" The child's strength was unbelievable. 

Free of the agonizing pain, Roxton roared and scrambled to his feet. The sight of Marguerite gasping and struggling for breath shattered something inside his beastly heart. One thought only enveloped him. 

Protect.

Osric saw Roxton coming and shoved Marguerite in the way, a vain attempt to ward him off. But Roxton reached around her with a long dexterous arm and impaled Osric with a single claw. Marguerite felt the pressure ease from her neck and she twisted away, barely rolling aside in time as Roxton leaped upon Osric and began tearing at him with his claws.

Osric's horrific screams filled the chamber and Marguerite covered her ears with her hands to drown it out, but she made no move to help him. The little bastard deserved what he got! But then her eyes caught a glimpse of something barely glowing in the corner. It was the orb, the sliver of Roxton's soul! It was growing dimmer and dimmer. 

She scuttled over to it. It was almost completely black now. She understood! Spinning around, she screamed.

"JOHN! NO!"

The final killing blow was raised above Osric's bloody head. It trembled to a halt. Roxton's head turned toward her, confusion rampant on his face.

"John if you do this, your soul if forfeit." She held out the little piece of his soul flickering faintly. It was dying, almost black. "Do you understand what I'm saying? You can't kill him!"

The distraction was all Osric needed. He waved a hand and Roxton got caught in it. His massive body slammed into the stonewall by an unseen force and it slid down into a boneless slump. Marguerite ran to him, cradling his limp form as best she could. 

Osric staggered to his feet, rage plain on his face. "Thank you, Miss Krux. Without your timely interruption, he might have actually killed me."

"That's what you wanted. You knew what the cost would be."

"My life. Your life." He shrugged his thin shoulders. "Either way I would have won."

"Well, you've lost now. Roxton won't kill by your whim."

"Yes, I see that. A pity. That damn stubbornness is what I despise about him. Still, so long as he _believes he killed you, I suppose it would be enough. His soul wouldn't be destroyed, but his will would be. He'll hate himself regardless and become the self-loathing creature I want."_

"You're insane!"

"Yes, that's pretty much what everyone keeps telling me." He stepped toward Marguerite, his hand lifted. 

She knew the battle was over. There was no way to beat Osric this time.  But the thought of Roxton carrying the senseless guilt of her death on his hands galvanized her into one final action. As he approached, she fumbled for a weapon. A long chunk of bone slipped under her hand and she instinctively grabbed it and swung it at the vile creature approaching her.

Not expecting Marguerite to be so bold, Osric took the blow full in the face. It staggered him.

Enraged and inspired by her seeming success, Marguerite rose and continued to whale upon Osric. All her pent up terror and frustration surged to the surface. Blow after blow rained down on him.

Marguerite could hear herself screaming something at him in a steady stream of verbal filth, but she had little idea of what it was she was actually saying. She only wanted to survive and save Roxton.

If Roxton couldn't kill Osric, then by God, she would. Her soul was tainted far beyond redemption anyway. One more death couldn't possibly make a difference.

Perhaps this was what she was meant to do all along, to take someone else's pain and guilt upon her own soul. She was willing to sacrifice what was left of it for Roxton. It was a simple choice really.

Osric, knowing this mad woman held his death in her eyes, struggled to regain the upper hand. He struck at her with a weakened blow, and it was enough to send Marguerite reeling. But to Osric's surprise, she rose again, blood streaming from her nose and mouth.

This time her hair flared out behind her as if buffeted by a strong wind except there was none. Her face relaxed and her large eyes held the window to her heart that beat with the ferocity of a hellcat protecting her own. There was something suddenly very different about the woman. She radiated power.

For the first time, Osric knew fear.

It was a power that far exceeded his own.

The woman's ranting had transformed into a singsong chanting which filled his head with its subtle tones. It was driving him mad, invading every space and saturating his brain with agony. Then the ground beneath Marguerite glowed white. A high pitch whine filled the air and when it reached an ear shattering level that light sped across the floor with the swiftness of a bolt of lightening, aiming straight toward Osric.

Suddenly white-hot flame enveloped him. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound issued forth. His pain was his own.

His only hope lay with his control over Roxton but that was now lost to him. The hunter lay near death in the corner. Osric was going to die, by this mere slip of a woman, who was much more than she appeared to be. Then as he was dying it hit him. 

She was the Chosen One.

After all these years she had finally returned to the plateau.

Did the Noir know? Did Leair suspect and send her here to kill him? For only a Chosen One could kill him. Damn Leair! Osric in his desperate attempt to regain control had awakened the Chosen One in this weak vessel of a woman and now he was dead.

He crumpled to the ground and moved no more, white smoke rising from his blackened flesh.

Marguerite felt the power ebb away from and she staggered back, grasping the stone wall for support. She felt weak and sick. The power that had erupted from her seemed like a dream, as if it had been someone else wielding the power, just like it had once before with the druids and their emerald. Thankfully, the queasiness passed quickly. All that remained were the rewards of her deed. 

Osric was dead. Roxton was safe. So was she.

Scrambling back to him, she fumbled for a pulse. One still beat, but it was so weak and hesitant. She had hoped that with Osric's death, the spell would be broken and Roxton would revert to his normal state. But that hadn't happened. He was still a monster and he would die one as well. Tears flowed down her face as she tried to cradle him.

No, it couldn't end like this. She had fought this battle for him, so that he could live without this guilt upon his soul. 

So intent was her attention she didn't even notice more figures enter the cave. Challenger ran forward with Malone and Veronica at his heels. 

"Marguerite!"

Leair stepped into the cave behind them. His eyes widened in amazement at the sight within.

Osric!

Defeated!

He had forgotten that this prison plane also held the Hated One. Osric had been sent here after he had been defeated by…

His head turned slowly and looked at the huddled figures on the ground now surrounded by Challenger and the others.

Then he understood. This had all been a play for revenge by Osric from the beginning, and Leair had stupidly played his part in the production. He had been but a pawn in Osric's mad scheming, believing all that the Hated One had placed before him. But somehow this man and this woman had defeated him. How was this possible?

Then he felt the residual power. Not Noir but something else. There were few powers that could challenge the Noir. He stared hard at the only two people who could have wielded such power. It was not the male, though he did hold some strength Leair had not noted prior, but it was the woman whose energy signature still hummed within the cave. Though it was dissipating quickly, a sign that the woman named Marguerite had no real clue how to hold it. She was most likely unaware of the unique nature of the gift she possessed or its true purpose.

_A Chosen One!_

Leair had to keep from falling to his knees in both shock and adoration.

A miracle! She had returned! After all these centuries.

Challenger spun on him, anger and desperation evident in his visage

"Damn it, man! Just don't stand there like an idiot! Help him! He's dying!" The professor gestured at Roxton.

Leair approached them, bowing his head imperceptivity at Marguerite who only glared. It humbled him and he felt shame rear up inside him instead. All this was his fault. Two innocents, two souls in the balance. And only one of them had made it through unscathed.

He placed a hand on the wendigo's chest and felt the feeble life force flickering within. The creature's eyes were opened and centered on Marguerite. Leair doubted the man inside had the strength to withstand the coming transformation. He was holding onto life by a thread.

Leair raised shame filled eyes to Marguerite. She immediately saw his response and grabbed him by his tunic. "Don't tell me there's nothing you can do. So help me, I swear you won't leave this cave alive if he doesn't!"

"But he's too weak. His life force is fading far too fast. There is a great emptiness within his soul."

Marguerite held out the small orb, which she still coveted. "This is what he's missing. Osric stole it from him months ago and used it against Roxton. Put it back." It wasn't a request.

Leair stared in amazement at the small swirling orb, as did Challenger and the others.

"What is that?" Challenger breathed, eyes riveted to the cascading hues.

"John's soul. Or at least a portion of it. He used it to make Roxton think he craved blood again." Marguerite pinned Leair with a steely glare. "Roxton didn't kill that man. Osric did. You condemned an innocent man to this. You bastard."

Leair's head bowed even lower. "I am sorry. I did not know."

Challenger noted the pile of bones littering the cave's floor. "None of these remains are human. Even in this beastly state, Roxton refused to kill another human being. Is that evidence enough for you, Leair?"

Leair sat there stunned. How could he have been so wrong? Osric was a twisted evil being and once again had made the Noir look foolish and inept.

Veronica noticed Roxton's eyes flickering closed. "If you're going to do anything, now is the time. He's dying."

Leair nodded and took the orb from Marguerite. Running his hand over the small sphere several times, he washed it of the darkness Osric had infused it with till it glowed with only light pastels. He then slowed the vibrant swirling hues to almost a standstill. Then he gently settled it on the beast's chest. It sank ever so slowly beneath the skin, glowing a warm yellow. 

Roxton took in a large gasp, his great chest heaving, as if something ice cold had touched him, but then after a moment, his body relaxed. His breaths deepened and the tightening grip of death seemed to pass him by.

Leair knew that there would be no better time to try the restoration spell. If the beast regained its full faculties, it could attack them all. It seemed stronger now that his soul was whole. The old man placed his hand on the beast's head and began to murmur the incantation. With his other hand, he removed the amulet around its neck. 

The white light appeared again over the beast and became so bright that all looked away. As it faded, a human form took shape.

"Roxton!" Marguerite cried. His head had appeared in her lap and she cradled him. Her hand fumbled immediately for a pulse.

It was there but pounding like a hammer, wild and erratic. He regained consciousness in a rush, with a loud gasp, like a drowning man's first breath, surging forward against Marguerite's arms. She held him.

He collapsed back, body shivering though his skin was drenched. His body immediately curled up into a fetal position. Challenger removed his coat and covered Roxton. 

"John, can you hear me?" he called out.

There was no response. The hunter's eyes were tightly closed as if trying to shut out the rush of sensations that were cascading over him, including Challenger's voice. 

Marguerite tried. "John, it's us. You're all right."

Nothing. 

Leair shook his head. "Give him time." Though by his face, it was obvious he didn't believe what he said. "Let us return to the plateau. Perhaps that will help. Here the sounds are strange and will only remind him of what he has endured. The comforting sounds of the plateau might be what he needs to cling to his sanity."

"Sanity? What are you saying?" Marguerite demanded.

Challenger laid a hand on her shoulder and explained. "The process of retransformation has never been survived. Either they die or they go mad."

"What?" Her heart was caught in a vise. It couldn't be true. She reached out and slapped Leair. It echoed around the walls of the cave. 

Leair was shocked by it, but made no move to reprimand her. Instead he settled for being ashamed. Standing, he touched his amulet and waved a hand. A white light ripped the air in front of him. The portal. 

Then he gently picked up Roxton in his arms. Marguerite almost protested but then relented since Roxton quieted somewhat in the man's hold. Challenger helped her up and steadied her, realizing for the first time that she too was injured.

It was time to go home.

***

To be continued in Chapter Eight


	8. Chapter Eight: Sanity is Fleeting

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Eight

"Sanity is Fleeting"

Leair's home was much like the old man who had long ago befriended them the first time they encountered Osric. An iron dome in the middle of the jungle. Perhaps Leair had taken over for that old man. Marguerite realized she didn't even know his name. The rest of Leair's people hadn't returned, which suited the explorers. At least this way, Roxton had a small measure of privacy in which to recover, if he could. 

Her heart still weighed heavy at the thought that they had survived this far only to now fail. It wasn't fair, not to Roxton, not to her. It was even more bitter since she had thought with the death of Osric that everything would be as it was. Only now things seemed even more dire. This Leair for all his power could do nothing to help Roxton through this ordeal. He just blindly accepted Roxton's foretold demise because he knew of nothing else. 

But Marguerite knew better. The explorers had endured much this last year and a half and had done so because they supported each other. Their sense of family, the first Marguerite had ever known, gave them strength. She knew that such power was enough to overcome incredible obstacles, sometimes so unbelievable that it would stretch the faith. 

She sat at Roxton's side, as he slept. He had not regained consciousness since that time in the cave, twelve hours past. Her only consolation was that he had now relaxed somewhat. No longer did he lay in a rigid fetal position, every muscle strained to breaking, his breath only shuddering gasps.

That alone made the ache in her chest ease. But she was desperate for him to wake though at the same time terrified that when he did, he wouldn't be himself. What Leair had told them of past retransformations made her go cold. Challenger however believed that Roxton being an educated man would aid his recovery. And also that Roxton had far more heart and soul than most people. Thusly armed, he could overcome what happened to him, like any rational human being.

But Marguerite had doubts. Roxton tended to covet his pain and this one was one that would never go away, much like the pain of his brother's death. He would carry it forever, and like his brother's, it was one that he shouldn't bear, but the nobility in him would not permit him to let go of it. 

And if he didn't then it could quite possible destroy him. Her only hope was that now that his soul was whole once more, he could withstand the torment that lay ahead of him. She only prayed that it was enough. 

Challenger had cleaned and tended her own wounded leg, and now it throbbed incessantly. Leair had offered to tend her, but she had refused venomously and the man had slunk away. Roxton's wounds were fierce but healing at a rapid rate while he lay in his stupor. Bruises faded in hours; raw rips in his flesh knitted before her eyes. She didn't claim to understand how or why, but she was relieved that it was so.

Roxton shifted slightly and it startled her. She jumped up from the chair and approached his pallet. 

"John!"

Challenger and the others came forward at her cry, Leair included. Marguerite only spared him a scathing glance before her full attention was turned on Roxton.

His eyes opened and he lay there staring at the ceiling, assimilating to sounds and smells that were vaguely familiar but achingly elusive. The cold gray texture above reminded him of the cave. His face contorted with the pain that he hadn't escaped his prison. An arm flung up to cover his eyes, but it never reached its destination. Someone grabbed it. Terrified, he scrambled back, jerking his arm away from the touch and shoving the figure aside. His flailing, open hand struck the figure smartly across the face; his eyes were wild and unfocused.

Such sudden violence shocked Marguerite. He had never struck her before. Her cheek burned at his touch. Pain and fear welled up in her at his panic.

"Easy, child. He's disoriented." Challenger laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and then leaned in toward Roxton so that the man could see him. "John, it's Professor Challenger. Do you recognize me?"

There were no signs of it. He was like a wild animal, crouched and panicked. Marguerite did the first thing that came to mind. She spoke to him in a soothing voice, almost a singsong. His eyes darted to her, and though he shrank back from her, she had his attention.

"We're all here, John. Please try to remember us. Don't leave us. I beg you. I couldn't bear it." She couldn't tell if it was helping, but it had worked in the cave. He had become docile then; maybe it would comfort him now, bring him back from the edge of the terrible abyss he stood beside. "You're all right. The curse is over. No one is going to hurt you here."

His eyes narrowed, full of dread and confusion, but he didn't run. His frantic panting soon subsided to shallow gasps.

"Keep looking at me, John. It's Marguerite. Stay with me. You're confused right now, but it's over. Osric is dead."

At the mention of the name, Roxton looked frantically around and his gaze found Leair. The white robe and amulet triggered more panic. He lunged away, toward the open door and escape, but Veronica and Ned caught him. He reacted badly, striking out at them with ferocity born of sheer terror. Ned merely ducked his head down and held him around the chest while Veronica tried to seize his flailing arms.

"Hold him," shouted Challenger, coming forward.

"Don't let him escape. We'll never find him!" Veronica ducked under a wild swing.

Fist upon fist cracked down on Ned's open back but he didn't let go. He knew what was at stake; Roxton was not himself. He didn't know what he was doing. Challenger tried to grab Roxton's arm to stop his rampage.

A scream erupted from Roxton's throat, first only a low whine but it soon built to an insane shriek. Challenger stepped back and landed a powerful blow on Roxton's jaw. The hunter slumped abruptly. They all collapsed in a pile on the floor.

Marguerite sank to the floor also. "Oh God," she whispered. "We've lost him."

Ned and Challenger eased the man back onto the pallet; the professor gently laid Roxton's head back onto the makeshift pillow. 

"No, we haven't, Marguerite. It's only the first round. He needs time to adjust."

"It will take more lifetimes than he has," Leair spoke softly.

Marguerite strode over to him. "You didn't give him a chance! Not from the start. You're the one who condemned him to this."

Leair's head bowed. "You are right. Forgive me. My fate is yours to do with as you please."

That took her by surprise. "What?"

"I have taken your sentinel from you. I didn't know and I should have."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You're more insane then he is, you know that." Her anger deflected, she turned back to Roxton. Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth where Challenger had struck him. She quickly cleaned it before he could wake and taste it. 

"Is there nothing we can do to help him?" Veronica demanded of Leair.

"Surely there is something you've witnessed that could help?" Ned asked.

Leair stared into their hopeful faces, but he could offer them nothing. It would take a power greater than his to bring this man back from the brink of insanity. 

With sudden realization, he regarded Marguerite. "You may have the power to make him whole."

"Yeah right. What can I do?"

"He reacts to you, listens to you, whether he understands or not. Speak to him, remind him of who and what he is."

"I tried that. It didn't work. He ran screaming from me."

"No," Challenger said, understanding now what had happened. "Not from you, Marguerite, from Leair."

"You should go," the old Noir said. "Take him from this place, away from me. Take him into a jungle that breathes with life. Let her," he gestured at Marguerite, "speak to him, sing to him. It will be his only chance to return to you."

Marguerite regarded him warily. The way Leair kept reacting to her made her very uncomfortable. It was as if he knew what had happened in that cave. But thankfully Challenger and the others did not. She wanted it to remain that way.

Thankfully, Challenger was thoughtful and distracted Leair with a theory. "Those other prisoners had no family, no one to claim them and help them through the ordeal. No one but you. That is why they couldn't survive the retransformation."

Leair nodded dejectedly. "There is some truth in what you say. We are only observers, sentinels if you will. We can no more help a soul in need than we can help to heal madmen like Osric. Only human beings can reach out and bring back a soul from the beyond. In that way, you are far more powerful than even us."

Challenger understood now what they had to do. They gathered Roxton and their things and departed, heading for the dense jungle with hopes and prayers that they were doing the right thing.

***

The night was deep and dark and it did not lack silence. For the first time no one complained of it. The strident noise filled their ears and resounded in their heads. They hoped it was doing the same for Roxton who lay unresponsive near the fire surrounded by his friends. 

Marguerite sat gently humming beside him, brushing light fingers through his damp hair. He was running a mild fever and continually shivered in his sleep, or whatever it was he was experiencing. They couldn't rouse him; they had tried. She fought the despair that welled up from the pit of her soul to consume her, shoving it time after time back down. Such anguish would do no good. But her hold was tremulous at best. Her voice struggled not to break and it took all her years of training to maintain control. 

Hours later though, with her throat rubbed raw with the strain, she still continued to sing. It was if she knew that if she stopped, he wouldn't find his way back to them. Challenger brought her some tea but she wouldn't even stop to drink it.

"You have to cease, child. It will do him no good if you exhaust yourself. He will wake when he's ready."

But still her song continued. Challenger sighed and gently cradled the top of her head with his hand before returning to the fire. 

Her eyes closed and her thoughts drifted, distracting herself from her own pain, remembering every gentle word and small gesture of Roxton's that had ever touched her heart. There were so many of them: the waterhole in South America; the tent on the mountain; a selfless offering of his life for hers in an enemy camp; the kiss in the cell.  So deep into her ruminations that she failed to notice the small wisps of energy seeping out of her fingers and into Roxton. 

Time passed and she had no idea how much. Her mind was filled of happier times. It was a safe haven for her, one she didn't want to leave. She almost missed his hesitant voice. 

"Marguerite?"

She jerked back to the present. "John!" His eyes were open and looking at her. They were bloodshot and glassy, but at least he was cognizant of who she was. "You know me?" It was almost a plea.

His eyes closed wearily and then flickered open again. "Yes."

Her heart leapt. "Do you know where you are?" 

He squinted into the darkness, seeing nothing but blurry shapes. "No."

"We're on the plateau. Do you remember?"

He nodded then and made to rise. She tried to stop him but he would not be deterred. The others noticed and came over.

"Roxton?" Ned voiced excitedly.

"Are you all right, John?" Challenger inquired.

            Too many questions bombarded him and his head pounded. Marguerite thankfully answered for Roxton and let him collect himself for a moment. There was something different about him, but he couldn't place a finger on it. Things hurt, his arms, his jaw, his head.  But it was more than that, nesting far deeper.  

            His friends touched him and he couldn't help it, he flinched. Roxton's green eyes mirrored fear and shame. He shook from fatigue, and because he was damp and chilled. All he wanted was to be left alone but he knew that was not possible. His friends would not let him. They needed to be around him, their concern evident. He tried desperately to withstand the overwhelming urge to run.

            His brain filled with images and impulses that scared the hell out of him. He knew somehow they were his; they had happened to him and they were horrible and violent. He didn't want to remember them.

Challenger was suddenly before him and repeated his question.

Roxton quickly turned his face aside, unable to meet his friend's concerned eyes. His shoulders moved in one convulsive shudder. That was all. He didn't make a sound, but when he finally looked up at Challenger, his eyes glistened, all the anger and self‑loathing and helplessness that was inside him desperate to spill out. But he held it in, somehow, and nodded his head slightly. "I'm fine, Challenger." His voice was harsh and strained. He took a deep breath and settled. "I remember. It's all right. I'm all right."

Challenger didn't believe him for a moment, but knew that pushing the issue would not gain them anything but a dangerous repeat of the earlier reaction in Leair's shelter. Roxton's face was chalky and glistening with sweat. He was holding onto sanity by his fingertips.

            Challenger finally nodded and offered the hunter his canteen. Roxton grabbed it and drank greedily. While the man was occupied, Challenger tried to take another look at the wounds on his arms and face. They were healing far faster than normal. Perhaps Leair had made that possible. A relief of sorts and one less thing to be concerned about. 

The hunter was still horribly pale, and there were tight drawn lines on his face; Roxton closed his eyes and seemed to make an honest effort to get control of himself, but it was several minutes before he was able to stop shaking and breathe normally.

Marguerite hovered anxiously. The man seemed fine, but she knew that he wasn't, not really, but at least this was one hurdle over. He recognized them and knew where he was. The terrified, insensible man in Leair's home had frightened her almost more than the beast in the cave. Insanity continued to creep at the edges of John's brain. He was treading on the rim of a very thin blade and in the end it would be up to him whether he fell off one side or the other. 

His thirst finally sated, he handed the now empty canteen back to her. She took it from him and her fingers brushed against his. Even that small sensation made him jerk aside. Such a reaction cut deep into her, but she said nothing, only left him alone. She wished Challenger would do the same, but the man was once again grilling him.

"Do you remember all that happened to you?"

Roxton cast him a hard look. "Enough."

"Do you recall Osric?"

The pained expression that filled the hunter's face made everyone uncomfortable and tense, waiting to see if Roxton's reaction would be as bad as before. 

There was an uncomfortable silence but finally Roxton hissed, "Yes." 

"He's dead now, John," Marguerite assured him.

Roxton stared at his hands, all his mind could see was the blood that saturated them, imaginary or not. He dimly remembered striking the child over and over. 

Marguerite quickly told him the truth. "I killed him, John. Not you. He won't bother us again, ever."

He regarded her. "You killed him?"

"Surprised, huh?" She offered a small smile. "You know sometimes I amaze even myself."

"How is that possible?"

"Well, you softened him up a bit for me. I just offered the coup de grace. A plesiosaur femur if I'm not mistaken." She covered up her lie well.

"A dense bone to be sure," said Challenger. He too held a gentle smile. "Marguerite has an incredible knack for survival."

"Maybe I should trade in my knives for a nice femur," jested Veronica.

"I recommend them highly." Marguerite still waited for a smile to break across John's face at their banter but it was in vain. Still, he at least accepted their presence around him. It was something.

"You hungry?" Ned asked.

Immediately, Roxton paled and shook his head.

"No problem," Ned hastily added. "It's here if you need it."

They decided to go about their normal duties in camp and give Roxton time to come to terms with his return to them. Perhaps by acting as if everything was all right then maybe it would be so.

Marguerite wrapped her blanket around Roxton's shoulders before he could even protest. It bothered her when he didn't, but only grasped the ends tightly, drawing them close about him like a shroud. 

Veronica stoked the fire higher making it flare hotter to warm the hunter. It was risky but right now she'd rather try to ease his discomfort than worry about what might see the campfire.

Roxton finally settled off to the side, away from the others. Marguerite approached the fire to get a cup of tea for the man. She overheard Challenger's quiet discussion with the others. 

"…amazing that he's rational. Especially after yesterday."

"Are you saying that this might not last?" Ned asked, his concern evident.

"Quite possibly. Leair indicated that there were a few people that evidently regained their sanity only to lose it once more a few hours later."

Marguerite could stand it no longer. "Stop it!" she hissed. "He's fine. He's going to be fine."

"I hope so, Marguerite," Challenger soothed. "But let's not drop our guard just yet."

"I'm just afraid that he's going to bolt on us," Veronica replied softly.

"What?" Marguerite spun to her.

"Look at him, look at the way he's staring into the jungle."

They all turned their attention to the oblivious hunter. His back was to them, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his gaze aimed at the murky jungle.

"He's going to leave us," she repeated.

"He wouldn't." Marguerite said, abject fear lacing her words.

"Don't be so sure," Challenger told her quietly.

***

to be concluded in Chapter Nine


	9. Chapter Nine: Sentinel

Disclaimers: See Chapter One

WENDIGO

By Susan Zell

Chapter Nine

"Sentinel"

The next day Marguerite couldn't take her eyes from Roxton as he walked ahead of her, as if she needed constant reassurance that he was back with them. Veronica's haunting words still echoed in her head, even though it had been hours ago. The heiress was afraid that if she lost sight of him, he would disappear forever. 

How they had managed to pull this one off still baffled her. But somehow they had, or at least Challenger had. She was indebted to him, to all of them. If they hadn't arrived when they did, Roxton would have died. And what happened in the cave still terrified her. There was something inside her that she didn't understand, something she couldn't control. Yet somehow it had healed John and for that she wouldn't contest it, not now, not ever.

But she also knew it wasn't over. John's behavior was off. His claims of assurance regarding his health and well being were too pat, too quick. After years of living with this man she recognized the signs of suppression and avoidance all too easily. The others glanced at him uneasily; everyone knew it. Veronica continuously looked back at her charges as she led point. Challenger and Ned were conversing very quietly behind her but she knew what their topic entailed. However, she prayed that John didn't, though how could he not. 

His shoulders were ramrod straight, his gait stiff but steady. She was getting an ache in her neck just watching him. Yet no one seemed ready to call it quits. They couldn't possibly make it back to the treehouse before nightfall so why the big rush? Finally, she took matters in her own hands. She made her limp more pronounced and then declared she would go no further. 

She waited for someone to broach an argument, but the only one that didn't seem relieved was Roxton. When he turned to look at her, her heart almost broke. There was fear in his eyes, something she had never seen there before. Fear for himself. 

"We still have plenty of daylight left," he stated, in a voice that was almost pleading. His eyes, normally so alert and alive, were dark with fatigue and that unnamable pain

Marguerite shook her head even thought it hurt her to do so. "I can't go another step. Unless you're willing to carry me."

For an instant she saw that he was willing to do just that, but thankfully Challenger stepped in.   
"We'll make camp here." 

End of discussion. Challenger's firm tone decreed it so, for which Marguerite was grateful. Roxton seemed to deflate and then announced he would collect some firewood.

As the hunter disappeared into the jungle, the remaining explorers exchanged uneasy glances. Everyone had the same concern. No one wanted to speak of what happened or what it would mean in the future, but they all knew. 

Veronica moved to follow Roxton. "I'll go help with the firewood." She smiled gently at Marguerite and the heiress nodded her thanks. The rest of them began making camp. They were all grateful since it gave them something to do, but eventually the topic reared its head since neither the hunter or the huntress had yet returned. 

"Does anyone else have this really bad feeling?" Ned finally asked.

Marguerite glared at him. "He's fine."

Challenger sighed. "Repressing what happened isn't going to make it go away, Marguerite." 

"I know that," she snapped. "But pushing him into discussing it won't help him either."

"No, it won't. But he's still in shock and until he faces what happened, its not going to go away. Not this time."

Challenger was right. Marguerite knew that. John had been able to suppress many things that had happened to him both on and off the plateau: the death of his brother, Calista, the Kanu, but suddenly it seemed as if all that weight was about to collapse back upon him in a most horrible way. She had always dreaded this day.

"All we can do," Challenger assured her, "is to wait for it and be there for him when it happens. It won't be pretty. And it might not happen now, nor even days from now, but it will. The trauma runs too deep this time."

"Damn Osric!" Marguerite cursed. "Damn his wretched little hide!"

"You've already done that, Marguerite. He's far from Roxton and far from us. And he no longer has Roxton's soul to manipulate. He's free of Osric at last."

Roxton and Veronica returned bearing an exorbitant amount of firewood. The setting up of the rest of the camp went silently. The pitching of the tents and the making of the campfire was immersed in an uncomfortable air. Everyone carefully avoided the question of food until Ned announced he was going to collect some fruits and nuts. 

Marguerite silently praised the lad. At least he understood that red meat was out of the question right now. She watched the hunter as the rest of them settled about the camp, the chores done. But Roxton wasn't satisfied. He stalked about checking and rechecking their work. Tugging on tent ropes, pounding at the stakes in the ground, checking the perimeter. She got exhausted just watching him. He was operating on last reserves. He was going to collapse soon, but he was fighting it with every fiber of his being. 

She dimly wondered if Veronica had any of her mother's insomnia tea with her. She doubted it, but she certainly wouldn't mind slipping it into some of Roxton's drink. It would certainly calm him down. 

She rose and wandered over to him, half-heartedly assisting him in his manic chores. He reworked a particular tent and at the end of his work, he winced. For an instant, Marguerite noticed the scars on his arms as the sleeves of his shirt slipped up slightly. The wounds were still pinkish, half healed. Scars he would carry for the rest of his life; she knew the scars inside hadn't yet fared so well. 

"You don't have to do this, you know," she whispered to him. 

He turned to her with eyes that held only pain, deep and resonating. "I can't," he hissed. "I can't stop, Marguerite. If I do, even for a second…" His voice trembled and he stopped, his teeth clenching hard as he swallowed back the pain of memory. 

She reached out to touch him. Abruptly he spun away, moving on to manically address the next useless chore. 

***

The veil of night was relieved by a bright full moon. Malone was on watch. Roxton had tried to volunteer but had been rebuffed by Challenger who claimed the hunter needed to rest. Roxton had not been happy about it and there had almost been an argument, but then the hunter eased off and settled himself on his bedroll, his face etched with fatigue

            It had taken hours but Malone believed the big man had finally drifted off. 

            Unfortunately, he was right and now Roxton fell prey to nightmares. The man started thrashing on his bedroll, his skin pale and drenched with sweat. Malone rose to his feet and approached the hunter. He laid a hand on the man's shoulder to rouse him before he woke the others. He understood the embarrassment that Roxton would feel at such a thing. It would be easier if only he knew.

            "Roxton."

            The hunter took in a last rattling gasp and his eyes flew open. He sat forward with a shout. 

Malone caught him. "Easy. It was just a dream. You're okay."

            Roxton's skin paled to an even fainter shade, almost green. He pulled himself out of Malone's grasp and ran past the perimeter of the camp. The sound of his retching came back to the journalist. 

Sympathetic, Malone made a move to follow him, but a hand on his arm made him pause. Marguerite stood beside him. 

"I'll check on him."

Malone hesitated but then nodded, letting her pass. 

            Marguerite could see Roxton's pale, hunched form just off a small glen of fallen trees a few feet from the camp. From the sound of it, the worst seemed to be over. But he still hadn't moved. His shoulders caved in around him, making him seem smaller in the darkness.

            She approached warily. Not out of fear, but knowing that the proud man would resist her attempt to help him. No matter how silent she tried to be, he heard her. Just as she reached out to touch him, he stopped her with a word.

"Don't." He slipped away from her, wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. He moved off toward the tangled jungle and stopped just at its edge.

He didn't want to be touched, not yet, but Marguerite knew it was necessary. She somehow sensed that without that physical contact, Roxton would slip into his own private corner of oblivion. Maybe Roxton thought that was where he wanted to be, but Marguerite knew that the longer he stayed there, the harder it would be to bring him back.

"Roxton—"

"_Please_," he moaned in such a plaintive voice that her heart tightened. "I can't." He flung her outstretched hand aside violently. The darkness of the jungle had been beckoning to him, so much so that he had been a moment from disappearing into it forever. If Marguerite hadn't appeared when she did… 

She wasn't one to be so easily deterred. He didn't need to go through this alone. He _shouldn't go through this alone. Her hand fell gently on his shoulder. His entire body flinched, tightening so hard that she thought he would curl into a tiny ball right before her eyes._

"John, we understand. There's no shame in what happened."

He turned on her then, his eyes bloodshot and wide. 

"What would you know about it?" he snapped, desperate to be left alone and not caring who got hurt in the process.

She regarded him sternly. "Much more than you think, John. I've done things in my life that I'm not proud of, things I still have nightmares of and will till the day I die."

He spun away to gaze longingly into the comforting darkness once more. "What," he asked bitterly, "did you break a poor sod's heart, or steal an heirloom off a old rich duke? Yes, there's something to lose sleep over."

"Those are childish things, John, compared to the blood I've spilt. Yours was out of madness, born of either illness or horrible psychic manipulation from that wretched little creature Osric. There is no shame in that." He shifted away from her again, but he didn't leave the glen. And that gave her hope. She came beside him and touched him again. Through her hand she could feel the tremors that were threatening to overwhelm his body.

His voice was but a hiss. "It doesn't change anything, what I remember, what I felt, what I did. I almost killed you!" The last came out as gasp of torment.

"It changes it all. You could have killed me; Osric is a powerful being and yet you withstood him, John! That doesn't make you weak. Not in the slightest." Her right arm snaked around his shoulders.

"Oh God, Marguerite. I've tried to kill you twice. And I didn't feel any remorse in wanting it, only joy. I wanted your blood to spill." He tried to shift aside again, but this time she didn't let him.  His shuddering grew worse. "It filled my brain. I couldn't stop it. And that man…I killed that man."

"Dammit, John! You did stop it! I'm still here. I'm still alive. And you didn't kill anyone! It was Osric. He placed all that in your mind. It's not real. Osric didn't win even that battle. Please don't let him win now."

"I can't, Marguerite. All I see is red. All I taste is blood. It's in my head. Visions. I remember everything."

He was shaking so much she could barely hold him. Her other arm wrapped around to brace him. "It'll pass, John. Those memories are not yours. You have to let them go. All you need to know right now is that I'm not leaving you."

His arms reached out to grasp her. At first she thought he would shove her away, but it was if he didn't have the strength to resist any more. He collapsed against her and sank to his knees. Marguerite followed him down. She held him tightly as his own grip on her tightened almost unbearably.

His shuddering grew worse and she realized with a shock that he was weeping, openly, harshly, a raw and terrible thing. A torrent of emotion had begun and Roxton had no choice but to ride it out. 

"Shhh," she murmured as if to a small child. She held him fast to her, offering whatever strength she could pass on. She understood what it was like to bear such thoughts. There was blood on her hands as well, so red and vibrant, she saw it almost every night in her dreams. The horrors her actions caused, even if from a distance, made them no less terrible. But for such an honor bound man as Roxton, the sin of taking an innocent life was terrible beyond measure. 

She had to make John understand that none of it was real, only Osric's sick game of manipulation. The blood staining him was not of his making; it was all illusion. He had not embraced this blood lust willingly. Though in truth, neither did she, but she didn't matter at his moment. Only John mattered. 

His sobs had deepened so that he could barely inhale. His shuddering breaths rattled against her. Her shirt muffled them so she didn't think anyone in camp could hear them. She prayed they couldn't. John needed to get this out, now before it tore a hole in his soul even larger than the one from the death of his brother. He had buried his fears the last time this happened and none of them had forced the issue. Now, Marguerite wasn't willing to let it rest. It couldn't, not without taking part of John with it.

It was minutes before he quieted. Almost an eternity in which Marguerite suffered through the fact that she couldn't really help him through this. It had to come from him. He had to be willing to let go of what happened. She could only hold him and hope that this break in his armor would allow him to pick up the pieces and move on.

            If it didn't, if he couldn't…she shuddered to think what shell of a man would come from this. Leair had said that no human had been able to withstand the reversion process. They had all gone mad and violent and eventually died or had to be put away in some other realm. Her heart turned cold at the thought. If it happened--if John couldn't bear this, what would happen to him, here on this plateau where there was no professional care? Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of him insane and a prisoner at their hands when his madness became so bad they had no choice but to restrain him. 

            She gritted her teeth. It wasn't going to happen that way. Leair was wrong. He had already been proven wrong. He was wrong about this as well. John Roxton was a strong man, strong in body and strong in mind. Osric would not win this final battle. She swore it.

            Roxton hadn't moved in her arms in some time. He just sat there, his breathing only occasionally marred by a shuddering exhale, though she could feel his heart pounding. 

Finally, he spoke. "I feel like I'm coming apart, Marguerite. I'm losing my mind." Roxton's voice was thin and reedy, like he couldn't breathe in Marguerite's grasp even though she wasn't holding him that tightly. 

Marguerite laid her head on his shoulder. "No you're not. At least, no more than the rest of us. Sometimes, I think we're all crazy one way or another. We've endured so much on this plateau. The only thing keeping us sane is each other. Don't let go of that." 

Memories of what he did cascaded over him again in a wave that almost smothered him. The sensations of his kills, the blood, the gore, the reveling in the act; it sickened him. He felt the bile rise up again in the back of his throat, but he fought it. It ended only in another shudder. _It wasn't real; it wasn't real._

He spoke in a mere whisper.  "Forgive me, Marguerite."

"For what? For sparing my life, for defeating Osric, for remaining an honorable man despite what was done to you?" She laughed, though it was far from being one of mirth. "You have nothing to be forgiven for, John. Not from me, not from anyone. Except from maybe yourself."

"The Noir…"

"The Noir were wrong. You were innocent. You proved that when you didn't harm me. Your love for me was that strong, enough to quell the will of the beast. A bloody miracle is what it was, John."

She raised his head from her chest. His face was drawn and pasty, and his eyes were glassy as if bright with fever. But, he seemed alert. He was listening to her.

"You won, John. And that is something to be counted. We'll get through this together, like we always have. Hiding these things inside you won't make them go away. You can mark my word on that. I've been there. I know."

His eyes shut tight against a well of pain at his soul and he took a shuddering breath. "I'll try. For you," he whispered.

She brushed her hand across his damp hair. His body still trembled beneath her fingers. "I expect nothing less from you, John."

He sank back down, as if lacking the strength to keep himself upright, his head lying once more on her breast, his body curling up against her. Her arms wrapped around him, comforting him, letting him know she would not leave till he was ready. Breath after quivering breath finally stilled and led to sleep. Marguerite sighed with relief, pleased that he seemed more at ease and willing to fight, for her if nothing else.

She listened to the jungle alive around her. Strange that it didn't seem to frighten her now. It was as if there wasn't anything else it could throw at them that they couldn't overcome. 

She didn't even flinch when footfalls came up behind her. She turned to find Ned hesitatingly approaching, worry etched in his face. She eased it with a reassuring nod. The reporter held up blankets and Marguerite smiled. She was grateful.

With surprising gentleness, Ned laid one over Roxton's still form. He tucked the edges around Marguerite as well before wrapping another around her shoulders. Afterward, he retreated back to the camp perimeter, but Marguerite could see his shadow as he took up a position that enabled him to observe both groups under his watch. It offered her even more strength, strength she could pass onto Roxton.

Leair was wrong in thinking that John would not be able to overcome this. Marguerite knew better. Roxton was a man of steel mettle, one that had endured fires of hell far hotter than this. He would not soften and bend like weak iron. So long as they stood together against this and did not fight to withstand the pain, it would only strengthen the resolve and will of this man. She knew the others well enough to know that none of them would abandon the fight to keep them collectively as a family. 

She eased her head down onto his and closed her eyes. She would not forsake this man, not ever. None of them would; their devotion was as strong as his was for them. It would help them overcome all, no matter if the demons came from within or without.

She and Roxton were bound together by more than just bounds of love. Deep in her heart she knew it. They were meant to be together. Roxton would forever be at her side. A silent … what had Leair called himself…a sentinel. Roxton had been that for all of them on this plateau. Could she be any less for him, now and for always? With that she sat back and guarded him while he slept, unafraid of the darkness around them. 

Tonight she would be his sentinel.

The End    

To all those who stuck with the story throughout it's telling, thank you from the bottom of my heart. And thank you all for leaving a review either here on the various sites or for email me privately. Your encouragement was greatly appreciated! 


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